


You Look the Way I Feel

by yourdifferentoctober



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Blow Jobs, Bottom Draco Malfoy, Enemies to Lovers, Falling In Love, First Time, Getting to Know Each Other, Hand Jobs, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Hurt/Comfort, Jealous Harry Potter, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Possessive Harry Potter, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Praise Kink, Semi-Public Sex, Sexual Tension, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Snogging, Top Harry Potter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-01
Updated: 2020-06-22
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:07:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 32
Words: 108,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24493981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yourdifferentoctober/pseuds/yourdifferentoctober
Summary: Draco returns for his eighth year at Hogwarts in an attempt to salvage whatever he can of his future. His plan: sit as many N.E.W.T.s as possible, distance himself from the Malfoy name, and keep out of trouble. Of course, with his father on trial and at risk of unthinkable punishment, not to mention the anxiety-fueled "episodes" that have been plaguing him since summer, the school year doesn't go so smoothly. Especially when Harry Potter keeps seeking him out.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 530
Kudos: 2702





	1. i.

**Author's Note:**

> Playlist for the fic:
> 
> https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3IglFA9eVsQCVg8vI6U9GO?si=zZehkusnQV6ABylHM_9JZA

Draco saw Potter on the train once, just once, and then he was gone. He lingered at the doorway until he felt Pansy’s gentle hand on his shoulder, guiding him back into their compartment. Greg sat with his forehead pressed against the window. Blaise had a hefty tome in his lap and was pouring over it. Nott was huddled across from Greg, fishing through a box of Every Flavoured Beans. Whether the others felt Vincent’s absence, Draco couldn’t say; the atmosphere in their compartment was dreary, but the summer had not been easy for any of them. Draco’s father was still on trial. His mother had been acquitted. Presently they were both on house arrest, and he had to admit it was a relief to be returning to Hogwarts for his eighth year. The Manor was unbearably silent these days. His mother spent much of her time in her bedroom, alone. At night she wandered throughout the Manor. Many nights, Draco heard her gently open his bedroom door, and then, after a moment’s silence, shuffle back down the hall. They rarely spoke. Much of the estate had been destroyed in the war, and his mother seemed in no hurry to begin reparations. His father, meanwhile, had hardly said a word to him all summer, preferring to drink alone in his study.

Draco had been cleared of any part he had played in Dumbledore’s death and the war. Of course, he largely had Potter to thank for that— _bloody Potter_ , he thought to himself, although he couldn’t find the energy to truly be angry with him anymore. In truth, he wasn’t that bothered by Potter’s part in his escape from a lifetime in Azkaban. After everything Draco had seen, and continued to witness, their rivalry felt like silly schoolboy nonsense. In fact, the whole lot of it—the House Cup, the Quidditch Cup, the interhouse rivalry—it all seemed trivial now. It was hard to imagine a future where he could return to his lessons or partake in the old Hogwarts traditions as if nothing had happened. As if his entire world hadn’t been flipped upside down, and him along with it.

He sat next to Pansy as the train whisked them through the countryside. Much of the conversation centered around their lessons this year. An eighth year at Hogwarts was unprecedented.

“We aren’t prepared for our N.E.W.T.s at all, are we?” said Pansy. She had grown out her hair over the summer, and it curled in soft wisps down her back. She was already wearing her robes. “They’ll have us doing seventh-year lessons, trying to catch us up.”

“Not with the seventh years, I hope,” Draco grumbled.

“What will they do, then? Have separate classes for the eighth years? How will they manage? They’ll need extra classrooms, and it’s even more work for the teachers…”

Blaise looked up from his book. “Mother says we won’t only be doing classes this year.”

“Meaning what, exactly?” Nott asked.

Zabini shrugged. He had grown somehow taller over the summer, thinner. “I wouldn’t know.”

“Well, we have to catch up, haven’t we? What else will we have time for?” Pansy turned to Draco, as though he had the answer.

Draco sighed and ran a hand over his face. “You’ll do just fine on your N.E.W.T.s.” He was tired. Not for the first time he found himself questioning his decision to return to Hogwarts. He reckoned they all had. His eyes flicked over to Greg, his great figure oddly diminutive as he sat by the window and gazed outside. He had not seemed to notice their presence at all. His father had died in the war, and his mother had gone into hiding somewhere in the Balkans. And, of course, he had lost Vincent. Draco had only seen Greg briefly over the summer, mostly in passing at the Ministry as they attended their respective trials.

Pansy followed his gaze and looked over at Greg, hesitated, and then shifted uncomfortably in her seat. It was a strange thing—they had all needed each other to survive, had needed each other desperately throughout the war, and yet now there was a gaping distance between them. They were his only friends, and yet they weren’t his friends at all. The realization burned a sad, hollow pit in his stomach, and not for the first time he felt rather sorry for himself. They had all been thrown together through circumstance, through their parents’ ties and the house system, but the friendships they had clumsily tried to piece together were so fragile. He counted Pansy as a good friend, but he wondered if even that affection would fade away. He had asked himself more than once if this was adulthood, the painful realization that the things that had mattered so much before were really just silly rubbish. Or perhaps they had shown each other too much of their darkest, most cowardly, most selfish selves, and there was nothing left to salvage.

Before long, it had grown dark out, and they moved to gather their belongings. As the Hogwarts Express drew to a halt, students flocked the corridors, chattering excitedly. Draco felt as though he was in a bubble—he could sense the nervous energy as it coursed through the students, and yet he felt numb to it. They sat, almost unmoving, watching through the window as students streamed out of the train. As the corridor cleared, Pansy rose from her seat, stretched, and said, “Come on. Let’s go.” They followed her out the train, and Draco felt his head clear somewhat as he took a deep inhale of the crisp evening air. Hogwarts loomed above them, as awe-inspiring as ever, and Draco was surprised to find that the damage from the battle seemed to have been repaired. He moved along with the crowd towards the carriages, gazing up at the castle. It wasn’t until he bumped into Pansy that he tore his eyes away and paid attention to where they were headed.

Pansy climbed gracefully into one of the carriages, and he made to follow her, until he caught sight of the Thestral hitched to their carriage. Its taut, black skin gleamed in the moonlight, and its great wings were drawn tightly at its side. Of course, Draco had been able to see Thestrals for a while now, but at the sight of the skeletal beast he froze. His stomach clenched and flipped as though he had missed a step. The blood rushed in his ears. He hesitated, halfway into the carriage, and he found himself unable to move.

“Draco?” he heard Pansy ask. “Draco, what is it?”

He was unable to respond, unable even to turn to her. His heart beat furiously. He opened his mouth—to say what, he didn’t know—when suddenly he was jostled by the surging crowd of students. Snapping out of his reverie, Draco looked around wildly and saw Potter of all people staring at him. He gazed back, for some reason utterly lost and unsure of where else to look. Potter was surrounded by Gryffindors, Granger on his right and Weasley at his left. His expression was stern. Their eyes met as Potter strode past, staring at him, and then Draco felt Pansy’s hand on his forearm.

“Draco, come on.”

He clambered into the carriage, clumsy in his confusion, and sat down hard next to Pansy. Blaise and Theo followed him, wary but apparently unwilling to question him. Pansy was not so kind.

“What was that about? What’s wrong?” she demanded.

He shrugged. “Dunno. Thought I saw something.”

“Draco, please. You’re pale as a ghost. Do you need to see Pomfrey?”

As the carriage lurched forward, Draco rolled his eyes and turned away from her, gazing out the window. “I’m fine. You sound like my mother.”

“I’m being serious. I haven’t seen you like that since—since—” Draco waited for her to continue, but she faltered, and the four of them sat in an uncomfortable silence as they rode up to the castle. Draco looked out the window, eyeing the other students as they babbled away in their carriages. It was impossible to think that he, too, had once been like that, discussing with his friends who they thought would take the Cup that year, which classes they were dreading, and who they suspected had started dating over the summer. And yet he had been. He remembered. It had all felt so easy then, so simple. Back then, he had never had to struggle with the panic he’d felt just now at the sight of the Thestral—that rising sense of dread that threatened to suffocate him. He had had a few of these episodes, as he called them, over the summer. They left him shaky and uneasy for hours after. Now, however, he forced himself to remain calm, to rearrange his features into his typical expression of detached boredom. The others didn’t press him.

Their carriage drew up to the castle doors, which stood ajar. A warm, welcoming light spilled onto them. Draco climbed down and held his hand out to Pansy. She hesitated, and then gave him a small smile and accepted his hand. As he helped her down, he glanced towards the Thestral. It did not seem to notice their presence—it was immobile save for the gentle rise and fall of its sides, its ribs jutting out beneath leathery skin. They followed the crowd into the castle. As Draco walked by the Thestral he had the sudden, inexplicable urge to reach out and stroke it. He wavered just a moment, but then Pansy tugged him forward and he lost his chance.

As they wove through the students and made their way to the Slytherin table, Draco quickly realized that only a handful of Slytherins had returned for their eighth year. Along with those he had shared a compartment with on the train, he saw Millicent and Daphne huddled at the end of the table. Draco felt vulnerable, exposed, acutely aware of the glares and whispers directed towards the Slytherins. Instinctively, he wrapped his hand tightly around his forearm where the Dark Mark was branded into his skin.

“Alright, Draco?” Nott asked as they sat down.

He gave a tight smile and flattened his hands down onto the table. Before he was forced to reply, the swell of conversation in the Great Hall quieted as the students looked towards the High Table. McGonagall was standing before them, dressed in long, gray robes. Her expression was rather severe, though it softened, Draco thought, as she surveyed the students. As the Great Hall went silent, she waited a moment, and then said, “Good evening. To our returning students—welcome back. And to our returning eighth-year students…” Another pause, and then, “We are all very glad to see so many of you. Last year was a difficult one. And yet to see so many of you here, ready to continue your educations…” She cleared her throat. For one terrifying moment, Draco thought she might cry, but instead she carried on briskly, “Let us begin the Sorting Ceremony so that we might enjoy our feast.”

At that, the large doors to the Great Hall opened, and the first-year students filed in, led by Hagrid. They stopped in front of the wizened Sorting Hat, sat on its stool by McGonagall’s side.

“They all look terrified,” Pansy whispered. “Were we that little once?”

Draco gave a noncommittal grunt. Pansy was right—some of the students were gazing up at the enchanted ceiling, while others eyed the older students filling the Hall nervously, but most of them stared at the Sorting Hat with a mixture of excitement and fear. As the Hat sang its song, Draco recalled the evening when he had been sorted into Slytherin. Of course, he hadn’t been surprised; generations before him had all been proud Slytherins. But he also remembered the restless nights leading up to his arrival at Hogwarts, when he had lain awake wondering what his parents would say if he were sorted into Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, or—his greatest fear—Gryffindor. His first morning at Hogwarts, he had rushed to the Owlery to write to his parents and inform them that he, too, was now a Slytherin. Watching the students as they were called up one by one, he wondered if any of them felt the same pressure he had once felt. But then, there was also the matter of recent events: more than ever before, there was a stigma attached to Slytherin. He wondered if any of them secretly hoped they wouldn’t be sorted into Slytherin, maybe would rather even be Gryffindors, if it meant keeping the shame at bay.

As the last first-year was sorted—Hufflepuff—the students clapped raucously. “Good batch of students this year,” said Nott, craning his neck to have a better look at them.

“Very well,” said McGonagall in her usual no-nonsense tone. As the applause quieted, she went on, “Some notes before the feast begins. The Forbidden Forest is, as always, out of bounds to all students. And our caretaker, Mr. Filch, has asked me to remind you that you may find a list of all objects forbidden inside the castle in his office. You may have also noticed that we have some new additions to our faculty this year.” She turned to the High Table and said, “Our new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, William Proudfoot.” A tall, dark-skinned man rose from the table to polite applause. Draco knew his name—he was an Auror at the Ministry; Father had spoken of him once or twice. He had black, curly hair and wore thick-framed glasses. He raised his hand briefly to the students, gave a tight smile, and then sat back down as McGonagall continued. “And our new Transfiguration teacher, Fleur Delacour.”

Draco gave a start. He was surprised he hadn’t recognized the blonde woman seated near the end of the High Table between Flitwick and Sprout. Pansy elbowed Draco as Delacour rose from her seat. “Fleur Delacour! She was the Beauxbatons Champion, member?”

Delacour gave a neat little curtsy as the students clapped—many of the boys quite enthusiastically, Draco thought with amusement.

“Why’ve they brought her in?” said Millicent. “As if any of the boys are going to pay attention in _her_ classes.”

“Quite young, isn’t she?” said Blaise. He looked across the table at Draco, casting him a rather wicked grin; Draco raised his eyebrows and said nothing.

“She’s married,” Pansy snapped. “To one of the Weasleys, too, can you imagine?”

Draco turned his attention to McGonagall, who was pressing forward with her speech. “And finally, I would like to acknowledge the unusual circumstances we find ourselves in this year—that is, the presence of our eighth-year students, many of whom have returned to complete their studies after the interruptions of last year. Let me be clear: while you are of age and certain restrictions will be relaxed, you are still pupils of this school and will expected to conduct yourselves accordingly. You are here to study for your N.E.W.T.s and to start planning for your future careers. That said, we recognize that you are in a unique position. Not only are you of age, but many of you demonstrated considerable courage and skill in the Battle of Hogwarts.” The professors behind her were nodding in agreement. “With that said, the Ministry and our faculty have consulted, and we have decided that this year will be an opportunity not only for you to study for your N.E.W.T.s, but also to complete an internship.”

At that, a low buzz of whispers erupted among the eighth years at all four tables. “You will,” McGonagall said, voice rising, “be meeting with your Heads of house tomorrow to discuss your career plans after Hogwarts, and to the fullest extent possible, we will be organizing opportunities for you to complete some basic job training in addition to your coursework.”

From the corner of his eye, Draco saw a hand shoot up at the Gryffindor table—of course, it was Granger’s. Several of the Gryffindors seated around her laughed. McGonagall said, “You will receive more information tomorrow from your Heads of house. For now, let us enjoy our feast.” As McGonagall took her seat at the centre of the High Table, all at once the banquet materialized before them: whole roast chickens; large slabs of steak; platters overflowing with Yorkshire puddings, mashed potatoes, and an array of seasonal vegetables; thick loaves of fresh bread; and jugs of pumpkin juice. Although he wasn’t particularly hungry, Draco filled his plate along with the others. Immediately the conversation turned to McGonagall’s remarks.

“An internship? What do you reckon she means by that?” asked Daphne.

“Do you think we’ll be working under a professor, as a sort of mentor?” Pansy suggested.

“How will they find the time?” said Millicent.

“And what about _us_ finding the time?” said Nott. “We’re here to study for our N.E.W.T.s, aren’t we? What do they expect, that we’ll have time to provide free labour around the castle as well?”

Zabini snorted. “Yes, because you’ve always been so focused on your studies.”

Nott opened his mouth to reply, but before he could, Greg said quietly, “I like it. Give us something to do. We won’t be at Hogwarts forever.”

Draco looked up to consider Greg. His plate was almost empty save a thin slice of roast beef. Pansy must have noticed, for she placed her hand on his arm and said, “Go on then, Greg, that’ll hardly fill you.”

He shrugged her off and stared at a spot on the table in front of him. There was a moment of uncomfortable silence, which Daphne broke by saying with a forced cheeriness: “Greg is right. What are you all planning to do after Hogwarts, then?”

“I thought we were all signing up to be Aurors?” Zabini said drily. That earned him a round of laughter.

“We could still work in Magical Law Enforcement, no?” said Daphne. “The Investigation Department…or Improper Use of Magic…you could even try for a junior position with the Wizengamot.”

“How cool would it be to work for the Department of Mysteries, though?” Nott suggested. “I’ve heard they’re studying all kinds of things in there—time, death, who knows what else.”

“Will they let the likes of us in there, though?” asked Zabini.

“Why shouldn’t they?” Nott said fiercely.

“What about you, Draco?” Pansy asked him.

“Yes, Draco, you’ve been rather quiet,” said Blaise.

The others turned to him. He took a sip of water, set down his goblet, and opened his mouth to reply when Millicent said, “Not likely to have good prospects given your father’s reputation, though, are you?”

“Millicent!” Daphne cried. “Why would you say that?”

“It’s true, though,” she protested. “For the rest of us too, probably, but Draco especially. Your family must have burned all their bridges by now.”

“Well spotted,” was Draco’s acidic reply.

There was an awkward pause, and then Nott went on to describe his aspirations of working in the Department of Mysteries. Pansy gave Draco a sympathetic grimace; he shrugged. The eighth years continued to discuss their post-Hogwarts plans as he leaned back and scanned the Great Hall. What were his plans? It was one of the many questions that had haunted him all summer. Most Hogwarts students went on to work at the Ministry, but Millicent hadn’t been wrong in suggesting that the Malfoy name was not exactly in good standing there—or most anywhere these days. Everything had been so simple before. He had always been a good student, and Draco and his parents had assumed that following Hogwarts he would take up an important position in the Ministry. Before the Dark Lord’s return, they had enjoyed all kinds of connections. The Manor was always buzzing with friends, family, and important guests visiting his parents. They frequently held parties in the opulent dining room, and they were invited on holidays around the world by his parents’ international contacts. But things had changed. Since the Dark Lord’s defeat, the Manor had seen no visitors. Its dining room remained dark and empty. They received no invitations to travel abroad. His parents had not even discussed with him what this would mean for his career prospects. Perhaps they no longer cared.

As the table was magically cleared of the remnants of their dinner and replaced with puddings, tarts, pies, and cakes, Draco’s eyes fell on Potter and his gang of friends. They seemed to be in high spirits: Granger was laughing at Weasley as he stole a large mouthful of dessert from her plate, while Potter was talking to Longbottom across from him. Draco heard Daphne ask him something and he made to turn to her when Potter suddenly looked in his direction. They eyed each other for what must have been only a second or two. Potter’s expression was cool, detached, almost surly, and then he abruptly looked away, laughing at something Longbottom had said.

“Draco? Are you taking Arithmancy?” Daphne asked him.

“Er—yeah. Yes.”

“So am I, but I’m quite nervous. I’ve never really cared for it at all.”

They discussed their classes until the table was cleared of dessert. McGonagall bid them goodnight, and the students made their way out of the Great Hall to their respective dormitories. The Slytherin common room, Draco was pleased to find, looked just as they had left it: a large, grand room filled with leather sofas, ancient writing tables, and tapestries lining the walls. Although they were in the dungeons, the room was warmed by a fire crackling away in the hearth. The eighth-year boys filed up the winding stairs to their shared dormitory, which featured four-poster beds hung with green, filmy curtains. Draco found his luggage on the bed closest to the window, which suited him: in years past, he had spent many nights sitting at the window, following the water’s gentle movements as the others snored around him.

They changed into their pyjamas and spoke very little. Greg was in the bed next to his; without saying goodnight, he crawled into bed and drew the curtains around himself. Once again, Vincent made himself felt through his absence, and, in spite of himself, Draco found that there was something not quite right about rooming with the others without Vincent there. While he was hardly sentimental, they had all shared a dorm since their first day at Hogwarts, and now one of their number was missing. Unsettled by the thought, Draco slipped into bed, closed the curtains tight, and then pulled the sheets up around his chest, falling into a fitful and uneasy sleep.


	2. ii.

In comparison to the long summer days that had crept by at a torturous pace, Draco’s first morning back at Hogwarts was frantic. He woke later than the others, and he had very little time to dress and pack his satchel before rushing up to the Great Hall to grab the last slice of toast remaining. Almost everyone else had gotten their timetables. As he poured himself some tea, Slughorn strolled down the length of the Great Hall towards him.

“Cutting it rather close, aren’t you, Mr. Malfoy?” He handed Draco his timetable.

“Sir,” he said curtly. Finished his meagre breakfast, he rose from the table, and made to check his timetable for the first class of the day.

“We have our meeting this afternoon at two,” said Slughorn. “You’ll be excused from your class. I'm in Professor Snape's old office now.”

That name caused his heart to lurch painfully, but he pushed the rising panic away. “Our meeting, sir?” Draco frowned.

“Didn’t you hear the Headmistress’ announcement yesterday, boy? Eighth years will be meeting with their Heads of house to discuss their plans after Hogwarts.”

“Right.” The truth was, he _had_ forgotten—or perhaps had put it out of his head.

“I’ll see you then.” Slughorn turned, took a step forward, and then looked back at him. His normally affable expression was a bit pinched as he said, “Everything alright, Mr. Malfoy?”

“Yes, sir. Don’t want to be late for my first class.” He held up his timetable and flashed a smile that he hoped seemed genuine.

Slughorn clapped his arm, causing Draco to wince, but he seemed to take no notice. “There’s a good lad. Go on, then. And I expect you to be on time for our meeting this afternoon.”

As Slughorn finally wandered away, Draco unfurled the piece of parchment in his hands, and found that his first class was Transfiguration with the Ravenclaws…all the way in the South Tower.

“Fuck,” he swore to himself, pocketing his timetable and rushing to class. The corridors were mostly empty, and he managed to make it to the classroom before Delacour had arrived. It was a bright, airy room, with high ceilings and long, narrow windows that welcomed in the morning sun. Rows of pine tables faced a chalkboard hung at the front. Draco slipped into an empty chair at the back of the room, next to Theo, who was speaking in hushed tones with Daphne and seemed not to have noticed him. As Draco was setting up his quill and inkpot, Delacour suddenly strode into the classroom, her pale silver robes fluttering as she proceeded to the teacher’s desk at the front of the room. Her blonde hair was pulled into a low knot. Instantly she seemed to command the room: there was an expectant silence as the students watched her, transfixed. She held several thick tomes in her arms, which she set down gently on her desk.

“Good morning,” she said cheerily. “My name ees Fleur Delacour—you may remember me from ze Triwizard Tournament. It has been a long time since zen…of course, with ze Battle, I did not know how Hogwarts was going to look.” She trailed off and gazed out the window for a moment, and then said, “I was not sure what to expect. Ze castle was greatly damaged in ze Battle. And yet it looks just as I remember from ze Tournament. Your professors have surely spent ze summer doing repairs. You should be grateful.”

She paused for a moment, appraising them, and Draco thought to himself that her accent was not as strong as he remembered. Perhaps that had come from being married to one of the older Weasleys. “Well,” she went on, “we have much to do. I hear your seventh year was interrupted. Understandably.” She picked up a piece of chalk and began to write various spells onto the chalkboard. “We shall go through each one by one and see which you are familiar with. If you know none of them, do not be shy—tell me. If we must start at ze beginning, we start at ze beginning.”

It seemed that even the Ravenclaws were considerably behind on the seventh-year curriculum. According to Delacour, their N.E.W.T.s would focus on conjuration in particular, but few among them felt confident in the more advanced conjurations she described.

“You will learn,” Delacour said bracingly as the students showed their dismay. “Zat is why you came back, non?” There was a murmur of assent.

The remainder of the lesson was spent going over the theoretical foundations of advanced Transfiguration. Draco tried his best to follow, and yet he found it difficult to concentrate. He would be listening closely when suddenly it was as if his mind went blank. He glanced over at the other Slytherins, wondering if they were experiencing the same problem, but they were bent over their notes. Draco dipped his quill back into his inkpot and started to write down the laws of elemental Transfiguration when once again the words trickled from his mind. He sat there, looking stupidly out the window, trying to calm the panic rising in his chest.

He jumped when everyone around him suddenly scraped their chairs back. He hadn’t noticed, but the lesson must have ended: students were talking excitedly, packing up their belongings, and already heading out the door. Draco looked down at his notes, only half-finished and much of it illegible. Before he could make sense of what had just happened, Pansy was at his side, asking to compare timetables.

The rest of the day passed quickly. Following Transfiguration, he had Charms, and then after lunch, double Herbology. As he filed into the greenhouse along with his fellow Slytherins, Draco paused to speak with Sprout.

“Professor Sprout,” he said. She had her back turned to him as she tended to what looked like an enormous orchid.

“Yes, yes, a minute, please,” she snapped, wrestling her arm away from the plant’s creeping tendrils. She threw him an irritable glance, but then froze as she caught sight of his face. “Ah—Mr. Malfoy. Right then. How may I help you?”

Draco wasn’t surprised by her reaction. Flitwick had seemed surprised to see him in class, and had avoided him entirely as they practiced their Amplifying Charms. Forcing his face into a resolutely neutral expression, he said, “I have my meeting with my Head of House at two.”

“Very well, see yourself out quietly when you need to leave.” She turned back to her plant, dismissing him. Irritated, Draco took a seat between Theo and Pansy. Sprout focused much of their lesson on revisions, bringing them through the care of plants including fluxweed and sneezewort. Draco constantly checked his wristwatch. He was anxious to escape Greenhouse Three: the hot, humid air was more oppressive than ever, and before long he felt rivulets of sweat dripping down his brow. Finally, it was one-thirty, and he decided that was a reasonable enough time to leave. As he packed up his things, Pansy shot him a curious look.

“Slughorn,” he mouthed at her. Satisfied, she looked back up at Sprout, and Draco slipped out into the cool afternoon air. Instantly he felt better. He hoisted his satchel higher onto his shoulder, stuck his hands into his pockets to protect them from the cold, and set off towards the castle. His head was bent against the wind, which had picked up since that morning. He was plagued by a question that had been nagging at him all day—what would he say when Slughorn asked him about his career plans? In truth, he wasn’t sure what he wanted to do after Hogwarts. The trouble wasn’t only that his family’s ruined reputation had cut his options short. There was also the matter of his own interests, which he seemed incapable of sorting out. For a while now, he had considered working for the Department of Magical Cooperation. Such a position would have allowed him to cultivate relationships with high-ranking wizards and witches around the world, and, while Greg and Vincent had been utterly perplexed by his interest in what they described as “bloody boring” work, Draco had always had a knack for bartering and negotiating. It was a skill he had learned from his father. But now he doubted very much that the British Ministry would send a former Death Eater as their delegate. Snorting at the thought, he pushed through the entrance doors and made for the dungeons when he heard someone call out, “Malfoy.”

Draco looked over his shoulder and scowled when he saw Potter coming down a flight of stairs. Potter’s tie was loose, and he wasn’t wearing a cloak. His hair was as untidy as ever. Perhaps Saint Potter felt that he was so above the rest of them that he didn’t have to bother with his uniform anymore. Draco made to ignore him, continuing on to the dungeons, when Potter said, “Malfoy. Where are you headed?”

“What’s it to you?” he asked scathingly. He turned to face Potter, who stood several feet from him.

Potter blinked. “Why aren’t you in class?”

“Oh, is that how it is, now? Are you a professor, Potter? Do you wander the castle making sure everyone’s behaving? Or are you working as Filch’s understudy?” Draco smirked as Potter’s face turned red. Potter opened his mouth to speak, but Draco cut him off and spat, “I’m headed for my meeting with Slughorn, if you’re so concerned.” And with that he spun around and stormed down into the dungeons, urging Potter to hex him. He was suddenly so furious, so affronted, that he would have been happy for a reason to fight Potter, wands or not. But he heard nothing but silence as he headed towards Slughorn’s office. In his bad mood he was about to bang on the door, but he paused, took a deep breath, and forced himself to knock politely.

“Come in,” Slughorn called from inside. Draco stepped into what had once been Severus' office. It had since been redecorated with plush gilded sofas, an ornate rug at the center of the room, and an enormous oak desk. The room felt unbearably claustrophobic, with side tables squashed in alongside winged armchairs, and a large variety of tapestries and framed portraits hung along the walls. Slughorn sat at his desk, rifling through some papers.

“Come, come,” he beckoned, motioning to a chair set opposite him. He noticed Draco surveying the room and grimaced. “My new office, as you can see. The Headmistress insisted I be down in the dungeons with the Slytherins now that I’m their Head of House. Of course, Professor Snape’s tastes were not like exactly my style, and so…” He waved his hand vaguely. “Horribly cramped, as you can see, and the Headmistress will _not_ listen to my thoughts on the matter…but anyway…” He trailed off, finished sorting his papers, and then sat back. There was an awkward silence, as though neither of them knew where to start.

“So!” Slughorn said suddenly; Draco jumped. “So, Mr. Malfoy. We are here to discuss…your career prospects. Your plans after Hogwarts. I always thought of you as quite the ambitious student. Though of course, now…”

“Now, sir?” Draco asked, forcing himself to remain courteous.

Slughorn smiled at him ruefully. “Now circumstances have changed. That is to say…” Slughorn leaned towards him. “Come, Mr. Malfoy. We need to be realistic here. Your grades are excellent, they always have been; I recall that you were particularly talented in Potions and Transfiguration. But as I say, your circumstances have changed. Our best course, I think, is to come up with something practical.”

Practical. The word set his teeth on edge. “And what did you have in mind, sir?” he gritted out.

“Oh, well now…” Slughorn gathered up some of the pamphlets strewn across his desk. “Have you ever considered…er…a career in genealogy?” He held up a pamphlet of a rather bored-looking witch sat in front of a thick book. “Very important, you know, keeping track of family lineages, magic records…” Draco stared at him. “Or perhaps…an owlet trainer? In high demand these days…wizarding families are loath to share one owl anymore.”

In the face of Draco’s chilly silence, Slughorn said, “Well then, Mr. Malfoy, what exactly are your interests? Any career in particular you’ve thought about?”

“No,” he lied. “Not really, sir.”

“Well. Have a think on it.”

“What does it matter?” Draco suddenly snapped. He couldn’t help himself. “As you’ve said, my circumstances have changed. I need to be _practical._ ”

Slughorn bristled. “I only meant that you need to be _realistic_ , boy! I understand you’ve grown up the son of Lucius Malfoy, and with that have come certain expectations—”

Draco stood abruptly from his chair. He swore he saw Slughorn cringe back, as though afraid of him, and that only fueled his anger. “I understand, Professor.”

“Now, look.” Slughorn was clearly distressed. He struggled to his feet, and for a moment Draco felt sorry for him. “I mean it when I say that I’m only looking out for you. You’re young. I don’t expect you to have everything sorted out, especially given all that’s happened in the past year. Just think about it, won’t you? You need to have some sort of plan.” He hesitated, and then said quietly, “You, more than anyone, need some sort of plan. I know this cannot be easy for you.”

Draco nodded stiffly. “Will that be all?”

Slughorn sighed and lowered himself back into his chair. “Well—yes, that’s all. Take some pamphlets if you like.” He waved his hand at the glossy brochures in front of him, but Draco was already halfway out the door.


	3. iii.

He thought that would be the end of McGonagall’s ridiculous internship scheme. And it seemed as though they were content to leave him alone, until that Friday during his Defense Against the Dark Arts class. Proudfoot turned out to be a stern, no-nonsense teacher. Within seconds, he had them on their feet practicing defensive spells with a partner. He paced along the students, correcting, guiding, and offering advice. Draco was paired with Pansy, and he spent much of the lesson explaining to her how to cast a nonverbal Shield Charm. He had expected Proudfoot to avoid him, as most of the other teachers did, but he eventually made his way over to them. Draco stiffened as Proudfoot approached, arms crossed.

“Please,” said Proudfoot, motioning for him to continue. Draco hesitated, and then faced Pansy.

Pansy paused, and then: “ _Rictusempra!_ ”

Draco whipped his wand through the air and Pansy’s spell ricocheted off the invisible shield, causing her to stumble backwards.

“You have to teach me,” Pansy whined as she regained her footing. “How are you so fast?”

“Well done, Mr. Malfoy,” Proudfoot said softly. He stood leaning against the wall, a strange look on his face. “See me after class, please.”

Draco waited for Proudfoot to move on to the next pair before asking Pansy in a low voice, “What have I done this time?”

“I don’t know,” she said nervously. “You haven’t already gotten into trouble, have you?”

He shrugged. He was fairly certain that he hadn’t broken any rules, but he was still uneasy. As their lesson drew to an end and the other students streamed out of the classroom, Draco hung back, moodily packing away his things. He thought it exceptionally unfair that his professors were acting so oddly towards him. Some, he swore, were outright hostile, seeming to resent his presence in their classes. And that was to say nothing of the students. Outside of Slytherin, most people wanted nothing to do with him or his friends. It was as though they had some sort of highly contagious disease that nobody wanted to risk catching. Had they forgotten that his mother had saved Potter at the Battle of Hogwarts? Or that his father had defected from the Death Eaters in the end?

“Mr. Malfoy,” Proudfoot said, startling him from his musings. He was sitting on his desk at the front of the room.

“You wanted to see me, sir?”

“I heard you’re having trouble sorting out your career plans,” he said.

“Right.” He wasn’t sure what else to say. Had Slughorn been telling the other professors about their tense meeting?

“We have another student in the same position.” Proudfoot eyed him for a moment, and then said, “Here’s what I suggest. We have many students whose studies were interrupted last year. Not only the eighth years were impacted by Voldemort’s return.” Draco flinched upon hearing that name, but Proudfoot continued as though he hadn’t noticed. “We’re doing what we can, but there’s only so much practice we can fit in during lessons. What I’ve proposed to the Headmistress is that the students organize a sort of club…I suppose you might call it a study group, but you’d be helping each other practice your spellwork. Particularly important after the events of last year...it’s high time we encourage interhouse unity, don’t you agree?” When Draco said nothing, he continued, “Anyway, I think you should lead these lessons.”

He balked. “I don’t exactly have ambitions to teach, Professor,” he said.

“And? From what I’ve heard you don’t have any other plans. I was quite impressed by you today. How long have you been able to do nonverbal magic?”

Draco blinked at Proudfoot, surprised. “Oh, er…I don’t know. Since fifth year, maybe? I practiced a lot that summer.”

“Well, your practice paid off.” Proudfoot smiled at him. “I think you could be quite the formidable wizard, Mr. Malfoy. Surely, your fellow students could learn from you.”

“You may not have noticed, sir, but the other students aren’t exactly keen on me this year,” he said idly.

“We’ve all had teachers we weren’t particularly fond of. I myself had a Potions professor I absolutely loathed, but out of all my classes I probably learned the most from him.”

Unsure of what to say, Draco mumbled, “Yes, sir.”

Proudfoot stood and gathered his jacket and briefcase. “It’s settled, then. Unless you have any other ideas that I’m unaware of?”

“No,” he admitted sullenly.

“Good. The Headmistress and I will arrange everything. Oh, don’t look so upset.” He chuckled. “It’ll give you a chance to hone your skills. And Mr. Malfoy, a word of advice, if I might: right now, you need to build some kind of reputation. _Away_ from your father. Take this as an opportunity to do so.”

Stunned, Draco watched as Proudfoot gave him a wry smile and then left the room.

***

Sunday morning, Draco finally got around to writing to his parents. He briefly listed his timetable and described his first week of classes. The letter was rather perfunctory, but he didn’t expect them to do much more than skim it, anyway. It was still early as he left for the Owlery; the common room was empty. He encountered only a handful of students in the corridors. Ascending the stairs to the West Tower, Draco wished he had brought his cloak. It was chillier than he had expected. Emerging into the drafty room, he quickly spotted Callidus, his eagle owl, perched at a window.

“Expecting me, were you?” he asked, drawing near. Callidus’ orange eyes tracked him as he ran a hand down the owl’s back. “Here.” He drew some Owl Treats from his pocket and held them out. Callidus shuffled over and ate the biscuits from his palm.

“I’ve got something for you to deliver.” As Draco tied the parchment to Callidus’ outstretched leg, he looked down at the courtyard below them. It was eerily quiet. He wasn’t used to seeing the castle so empty. In previous years, he would spend his Sunday mornings lounging in the common room with his friends, only heading up for breakfast when the sun was fully out. During nice weather, they would head to the lake to skip rocks, taunt the Giant Squid, and nap in the sunshine. Once it started to snow, they mostly restricted themselves to the common room, playing chess or listening to the wireless together. He wondered how many of the eighth-year Slytherins would still gather in the common room on Sundays, if any.

Draco gave Callidus one last stroke before stepping back. He hooted at him softly, and then swept out of the window, using his great wings to soar through the air. Draco waited until he could no longer see the owl at all, tracing in his mind the journey from Hogwarts back to the Manor. At last he decided to head down to the Great Hall to see if breakfast had been served yet. By the time he exited the Owlery, Hogwarts was starting to stir to life, and several dozen students were streaming lazily into the Great Hall. As he walked towards the Slytherin table, McGonagall intercepted him.

“Mr. Malfoy,” she said. “I’ve spoken with Professor Proudfoot and he tells me that you’re willing to lead the practice lessons we’re organizing.”

“I—yes.” He supposed there was nothing for it.

She sniffed. “Very well. We’ve decided that the study group will be restricted to fifth years and older, so that they can prepare for their O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s. We’ll be posting notices in the common rooms this afternoon. We’ll start with an hour-long session every Thursday evening at eight and see how you both get on. You’ll meet in the Great Hall. You’ll need to decide on some sort of curriculum.”

“Us both?”

“You’ll be working with Mr. Potter,” she said, brow furrowed. “Didn’t Professor Proudfoot tell you?”

“No, Professor,” Draco said through gritted teeth. “He didn’t.”

“Yes, well, you were the two students we couldn’t place. You should meet and plan your first lesson before Thursday.” She paused, considering him, and then asked, “Working with Potter won’t be a problem, will it, Mr. Malfoy? I don’t want a repeat of your previous tomfooleries. Surely, now that you are both of age—”

“It won’t be an issue,” he snapped. Seeing her stern expression, he added, “Professor.”

“Very well, then.” She set off at a brisk pace down the Great Hall, and Draco turned to the Slytherin table, where Theo, Blaise, and Pansy were already sat.

“What was that about?” Nott asked as Draco slid in beside them.

Draco was about to tell him to mind his own business when he realized that they would all find out about McGonagall’s ridiculous arrangement before long. “This bloody internship thing,” he said. “They couldn’t figure out what to do with me, so they have me teaching practice lessons to the younger students. Like a study group, Proudfoot said.”

“Why _you_ of all people?” Zabini stared at him.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Nott laughed. “They hate him. This is to punish him.”

“Oh, honestly.” Pansy rolled her eyes. “Nobody is _punishing_ Draco.”

“You lot still haven’t gotten your assignments, then?” They shook their heads.

“I asked Slughorn on Friday, and he said it’s all being arranged,” said Pansy. “But Draco…” She leaned forward, lowering her voice. “Why _do_ they have you teaching? Did you tell them you want a career in education or something?”

“No.” He picked at a bit of toast on his plate, having lost his appetite. “I didn’t know what to say. Slughorn told me himself—it’s not like I have a lot of options waiting for me when I get out.”

“I don’t think that’s true at all,” Pansy said quietly.

“Well, Slughorn does.” He shrugged.

“They can’t think that poorly of you if they have you teaching other students,” she pointed out. “That’s quite a responsibility, isn’t it? What will you be teaching?”

“Spellwork, Proudfoot said. I guess a lot of them need practice sessions after…everything that happened last year.”

She nodded sagely. “Well, they wouldn’t trust just anyone with teaching students, would they?”

“Oh, I’ll be supervised, don’t worry,” he muttered. “Potter’s teaching these bloody lessons with me.”

“Potter?” Zabini asked. Clearly, he had been listening in.

“Yes, Potter. I’m sure you’ve heard of him?” Draco snapped.

Nott shook his head, smiling. “You and Potter, teaching classes together. That’ll go over brilliantly, won’t it?”

“They’re not classes.” He ran his hand through his hair, frustrated. “They’re—I don’t know what the hell they are. Just practice sessions. I imagine we give them spells to practice and we correct them? I don’t know. Nobody seems to know what the hell is going on around here half the time.”

Zabini laughed as Draco stood abruptly and gathered his things.

“Oh, Draco, don’t be so upset,” Pansy said, reaching for him. “I think it’s nice. Do you know what my nan used to always tell me? ‘If you want to master something, teach it.’ Think of how much you’ll learn!”

“And the chance to learn from Potter, the greatest wizard the world has ever seen.” Zabini smirked. “I always thought your stunners could use some work, Draco.” Nott sniggered.

Draco scowled and untangled himself from Pansy’s grasp. He stormed out of the Great Hall, telling himself to ignore them. At first, he planned to return to the common room, but the thought of spending the rest of his Sunday around those idiots made his stomach turn. Instead, he made his way to the library. He had a Charms essay to finish, and he needed to look up an ingredient for his Potions lesson next week. The library, thankfully, was almost empty. Draco slipped through the stacks, heading for his usual spot in the Reference Section. Although it was a scuffed, wobbly table crammed between two leaning bookcases, Draco preferred to study in this secluded corner. He took out his Charms textbook, flipped to the assigned chapter, and continued his reading on the topic of Memory Charms. He had only gotten through two paragraphs when he heard from behind him: “Malfoy?” He leapt, whirling in his seat, hand flying down to grip his wand.

“Potter,” he growled. “What the hell do you want?”

“Er, I saw you head into the library.” Potter stood frozen, apparently shocked at his reaction. “We need to talk about our first lesson on Thursday.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake. As if he didn’t have enough to do.

“Right. So.” Potter looked around. “Shall I…pull up a chair?”

Draco hesitated, and then slowly relaxed his hold on his wand. “Fine.”

There was an uncomfortable silence as Potter dragged a chair all the way over to Draco’s spot. He was tempted to ask Potter why he didn’t just use magic, but he decided against it. The less they spoke, the better. Oblivious to Draco’s discomfort, Potter shoved his chair into the bit of space at the edge of the desk, half climbing over him to sit down.

“Right.” Potter seemed intent on acting as though this was normal, as though it wasn’t strange at all for them to be crammed together in the Reference Section, let alone speaking to each other. “So, what were you thinking?”

“I wasn’t,” he snapped. He tapped his open textbook and said, “I’m trying to study for my N.E.W.T.s. I don’t know why McGonagall thinks I have time to teach classes for her.”

Potter frowned. “So why didn’t you ask to do something else?”

“Like what?” Draco asked, exasperated. “I couldn’t, I don’t have—” He stopped himself short. This was stupid. Draco was starting to suspect that Nott was right, that this was all some great ruse to punish him. “Can we just get this over with?”

“I think they have me doing it because of the D.A.,” Potter said, ignoring him. When Draco said nothing, he added, “Because I led the practices during the D.A. Remember, Dumbledore’s Army, we taught—”

"Yes, I remember, Potter. Don’t worry, nobody’s forgotten your many noble deeds.” Potter’s face turned red and he opened his mouth to argue, but Draco cut him off: “Whatever. The lesson on Thursday. What’re we teaching?”

Potter looked as though he wanted to argue, but he exhaled sharply and then said, “Basics. Ask them to do some basic spells and see where they’re at.”

“How are we supposed to teach years five through eight, anyway? They’re all at different levels. This is so stupid.”

“In the D.A.,” Potter said, ignoring Draco’s derisive snort, “we taught students from different years together. Skill doesn’t always depend on what year you’re in.”

Draco propped up his Charms textbook, dismissing him. “Right then. Basics. See you Thursday.”

Potter sat there staring, as though waiting for him to say something else. Draco turned the page in his textbook, pointedly ignoring him, and finally Potter rose to leave. Draco settled into his chair, relieved that he would be alone at last, when Potter said, “Here. I forgot.” He placed Draco’s old wand on the desk. He recognized it instantly—simple hawthorn with a silver grip. He meant to tell Potter that he had already gotten another wand, but as he turned, he saw that he was already gone. Annoyed, Draco carefully picked it up, running his fingers over the smooth wood. He had long suspected that it had been lost or destroyed. Why had Potter kept it? And what good would it do him now? He wanted to be angry, but instead he felt a twinge of sadness. He was being silly. It was just a wand, for God’s sake. And yet he couldn’t help but place it gently in his satchel, nestled among loose bits of parchment and a spare quill. He sat there, eyeing his old wand, when suddenly a crushing sense of dread rushed over him. His stomach twisted into a tight knot. He could hardly breathe; it was as though someone was sitting on his chest. He flattened his hands on the table, trying to get a hold of himself, but the anxiety was overwhelming. He swore he could hear his heart beating and the blood rushing through his veins. He broke out into a cold sweat. He was drowning in the most terrifying sense of dread, although he had no idea _what_ he was afraid of. He just knew that at any moment something awful was going to happen, though he couldn’t say what.

Draco sat there for some time, eyes squeezed shut, breathing deeply, alternating between telling himself _‘it’s okay, you’re fine, relax, you prat’_ and _‘I’m going to die, how can_ this _be the way I die?’_ Slowly, gradually, the knot in his stomach untangled, and the panic ebbed away. He was left shaken. His surroundings came back into focus, and he recognized again the sounds of quills scratching on parchment and pages being turned.

“I’m in the library,” he muttered to himself. “I’m in the library and I’m fine. Nothing’s happened.”

Except something _had_ happened. Another one of his episodes. He wondered briefly if Potter had cursed him somehow, but he was too exhausted to care. Blindly, he reached for his Charms book, and dragged it in front of him. He forced himself to read some of the text. Somehow that always seemed to ground him. As his heartrate settled, he realized that he was shaking, and that beads of sweat were dripping down his face. He wiped his brow hastily, looking around to make sure no one had noticed. His little corner remained unbothered. Draco rose unsteadily to his feet. He packed his things, checked again that no one was around, and then strode out of the library. A few students looked his way, but he made sure to keep his head high and to maintain an appearance of cool indifference. All the while he wondered whether they suspected anything, whether they could see through him and recognize what he himself was starting to fear—that he was going mad.


	4. iv.

Monday morning Draco was bleary-eyed. He couldn’t remember the last time he had gotten a proper night’s sleep. Surely before his sixth year. Most nights, he spent hours lying in bed, tossing and turning, his thoughts reeling. It was impossible to calm his mind. It was at night that his worst fears nagged at him: before, he had mulled over his place in the Dark Lord’s plans, the risks his family faced, and the gore he was forced to witness day after day. Nowadays, he worried about his parents’ fate, running through various scenarios of how the Wizengamot might rule. If his father were sent to Azkaban, would he be able to visit him? How often? Would he _want_ to visit? Was he a horrible son for questioning whether or not he wanted to visit his own father? Or perhaps his parents would face some sort of fine or other punishment. He knew very little about the details of their finances. Would his father be able to pay a fine? Or would they be destitute? Would his parents have to work? Where would they work? Who would hire them? He felt nauseous at the thought of his mother working in a shabby little office in some low-ranking Ministry department.

And what about himself? Who was going to hire him? Where would he live? He couldn’t bear the thought of going back to the Manor after he left Hogwarts. The place stunk of death. He wished his parents would just set the Manor and its gardens on fire and let it all burn to ashes. Maybe that would stop the screams that haunted his nightmares. And that was another thing—his nightmares. When would he start feeling normal again? Did everyone else feel like this? Was everyone as affected as he seemed to be? Was he just weak? Or was this a fitting punishment for all those times he hadn’t refused his father, hadn’t refused the other Death Eaters, hadn’t refused the Dark Lord, had joined in even when he had started to question everything. But he had saved Potter, hadn’t he? He had lied in the face of his aunt and his parents, hadn’t he? Did that absolve him? Who was keeping track? Who judged these things? And Potter. Bloody Potter. Why had he kept his old wand? Why was he being so…civil? Why had he come back to Hogwarts at all? Surely the Ministry was ready to offer him any job he fancied. He could probably be Minister in a few years. So why come back to Hogwarts, especially since following the rules and studying had always seemed beneath him?

Having gone through these lines of thought—and innumerable others—Draco sometimes managed to drift off into a fitful sleep. That morning he had awoken groggy and stiff; as usual, his nightmare consisted of vague, black shadows, sharp screams, and flashes of green light. The weather outside seemed to reflect his mood: the Great Hall’s enchanted ceiling showed the sky to be overcast. He watched Pansy eat a bowl of oatmeal and listened to her prattle on about an article she had read in _Witch Weekly._ She was interrupted by the clamor of flapping wings as dozens of owls swooped in with the morning post. Draco hastily pushed away his plate as Callidus landed at their table. He had a roll of parchment tied to his leg.

“Morning,” Draco said, running his fingers through the owl’s grey plumage.

“Pretty thing,” Daphne cooed next to him. Callidus tolerated her fussing and nipped at Draco’s half-finished breakfast.

Draco untied the parchment from Callidus’ leg and unfurled it. His stomach clenched as he saw that it was from his parents. How stupid—he had always looked forward to his parents’ letters and the treats they sent him. But he swore he could feel their misery seeping out of the parchment in his hands.

“Who’s it from?” Pansy asked absently.

“My parents.” At his sharp reply, she raised her eyebrows but said nothing.

“Goodbye, Callidus,” Daphne called as the eagle owl spread his great wings and took off for the Owlery.

“Why don’t you get yourself an owl?” Pansy asked her. “You’ve wanted one for years.”

“Can’t,” she said glumly. “They’re so expensive. Mum promised she would buy me one last year if I did well on my N.E.W.T.s, but…”

Draco was only half-listening as he read the letter. From the script, he could tell that it was written by his father, which was odd; it was usually his mother who wrote to him.

_Draco, I hope you’re well. Your mother and I received your letter. We’re glad to hear you’re studying hard. Keep your grades up. My next hearing is October 5 th. You may receive a letter from Gringotts in the following week advising you that I’ve withdrawn some funds from your account. Please write back and authorize upon receipt._

_Your loving parents_

Draco snorted. The brief note was hardly “loving.” He felt a pang of guilt for bemoaning his mother’s novellas in the past. She would write to him long descriptions of the gardens in the fall, the holiday dinners they put on leading up to Christmas, the gossip she had heard from so-and-so, the latest remodel she was planning for the study or the sitting room. Some of those letters he had skimmed through before digging into the box of truffles or the Quidditch magazine she had sent him. He realized that for the first time in his life he missed his mother. He hadn’t felt homesick his first year of Hogwarts, and he had never really missed his parents while he was at school. There were moments in his sixth and seventh years when he had wished his parents were there to guide him, but he hadn’t ever really _missed_ them. But here he was, an adult now, and he missed his mother.

“What did they write?” Pansy asked, peering over his shoulder.

He jerked the note away from her. “The usual.”

“Oh? And how are they?”

“Just fine, thanks,” he said drily. She rolled her eyes at him.

Draco turned the parchment over in his hands, checking to see if anything else was written. “Father says he needs my permission to have funds withdrawn from my Gringotts account.”

“Withdrawn? Why?” Pansy asked.

“Dunno,” he shrugged. “For my tuition?”

“Is that how badly off your parents are, Draco?” Nott sneered as he slid into the seat across from him. Pansy groaned.

“Don’t you start, now,” she warned.

“Anyway, I’m off,” said Draco. The absolute last thing he needed was another petty argument with Nott, who seemed positively gleeful at the Malfoys’ fate. “I’ll see you in class.”

The letter from Gringotts arrived Thursday morning, delivered to him by a surly-looking horned owl. The crisp white envelope bore the red and white Gringotts seal. Grateful for the privacy granted by being the first one up for breakfast, Draco tore into the envelope and drew out a short piece of parchment.

_Dear Mr. Malfoy_

_We are writing to request your authorization of a withdrawal from your account, vault 210, in the amount of 2000 Galleons. To authorize this withdrawal, kindly sign and date below. If you have further questions, please write us back and we will be happy to assist._

_Sincerely yours_

_Bogrod_

_Gringotts Bank_

Draco read the note several times. Two thousand Galleons? Why on earth did his father need two thousand Galleons? To his knowledge, his parents had never withdrawn money from his account. He had assumed they needed assistance in paying his tuition, but he doubted very much that tuition cost anywhere close to two thousand Galleons a year. Otherwise, how would the Weasleys be able to afford sending their entire brood? He sat back and stared at the Gringotts owl, who was drinking from his goblet. Unsure of what else to do, he found a quill at the bottom of his satchel, signed his name and scribbled the date, and then stuffed the note back into the envelope. The owl stuck out its right leg as Draco reattached the parchment.

“Right then, off you go,” he said.

The owl gazed imperiously at him, as though offended that he would dare tell it how to do its job. Draco scowled, and the owl took off, flapping out of the Great Hall.

“Who was that from?” Pansy asked, taking a seat next to him. He sighed.

“Gringotts.” He decided that there was no point in lying; Pansy had the most annoying aptitude for sniffing out his lies.

She looked as though she wanted to say something, but then thought better of it. Opening up her copy of the _Daily Prophet_ , she said, “Well anyway, the eighth years are going to Hogsmeade tomorrow night. We should go.”

“Why?”

“What do you mean, why? We haven’t been out together in ages. And everyone’s going.”

“And the Slytherins are invited, are we?”

She scowled. “Why shouldn’t we be? We’re eighth years, too, and we came back, didn’t we?”

“Sure.” He was distracted from their conversation when he saw Potter approaching. Pansy stared at Potter blankly as he took a seat across from them.

“Malfoy,” he said evenly. “For our lesson tonight, we said basics, yeah? I thought we’d start with some O.W.L. revision—Summoning Charm, Levitation, Cheering Charm…and then some N.E.W.T. stuff?”

“Keep to O.W.L. level for now.” Draco sneered. “Or else we’ll have them blasting themselves into smithereens.”

Potter frowned but said nothing. “Let’s meet here after dinner to set up. Seven-thirty.”

“Ever the eager teacher, aren’t you, Potter? I’m just so relieved we have your vast experience from leading Dumbledore’s Army.” Pansy sniggered.

Potter glared at him as he stood and swung his bag over his shoulder. “Seven-thirty,” he repeated before striding out of the Great Hall.

“Taking it seriously, isn’t he?” Pansy laughed.

“Potter loves any opportunity to show off,” he said. “McGonagall must absolutely hate me.” Since the notices regarding their stupid study group had been posted in the common rooms, it had become a widespread topic of conversation. Draco occasionally heard students from other houses discussing why he had been selected to lead these lessons alongside Potter. Their skepticism hardly bothered him, as he himself had the same question.

“You’ll have all of us there,” Pansy said, as though reading his mind.

“Oh, great. Just what I need, Nott and Zabini there to cheer me on.” He took one final swig from his goblet and then rose from his seat.

“Where are you going?” Pansy asked, looking up at him in surprise. “We’ve got almost an hour before classes start.”

“Need to send a letter,” he said. Bidding her goodbye, Draco strode down the length of the Great Hall, that familiar sense of dread rising up in his throat. Students were starting to stream into the entrance hall, and he slid past them as he made his way to the double doors. Pushing through, Draco felt his head clear as the cool morning air greeted him. Over the last week, he had taken to walking the grounds almost every morning, and he often went for a stroll in the evenings, too. He told the others that he was studying in the library or implied that he was meeting up with various romantic partners. In reality, he spent hours walking aimlessly along the lake, around the greenhouses, and by Hagrid’s hut. Although it was still only September, the weather had turned quite chilly, and he found that the cold air calmed his nerves and cut through his panic. Increasingly, a low level of unease seemed to perpetually constrict his chest. He couldn’t pinpoint what exactly he was afraid of. He was simultaneously worried about everything—his parents, their finances, his grades, his future plans—and nothing at all; sometimes he had the peculiar sensation of being almost numb. Wandering through the grounds brought him some much-needed perspective and seemed to keep his fears at bay. Occasionally, he wished he had someone to talk to, someone to guide him, like Severus once had—but no, those thoughts were too painful; best to bury them.

Thursday mornings he had double Arithmancy, and Professor Vector was notoriously strict about punctuality. Draco checked his watch, saw that he had fifteen minutes to get to class, and hurried back to the castle. In the entrance hall, he waded through the crowd of students when he suddenly felt a hand grip his forearm. He jumped, whirling around.

“Draco.” He vaguely remembered the bloke in front of him—sandy blonde hair, brown eyes framed by thick lashes. Slightly taller than himself. A Ravenclaw seventh year. His name had been…Brown? Barry?

“Can I help you?” he snapped, pulling his arm away.

He looked put out. “I’ve been asking around for you since term started. Everyone says you’re at the library, but I haven’t seen you.”

“I suppose you’ll have to look harder next time.”

Draco made to leave but he called out, “Really? You weren’t such a prick when you had your tongue halfway down my—”

“For God’s sake,” Draco snarled, grabbing him—Brookes, he swore his surname was Brookes—by the arm and dragging him out of earshot.

“What’s your problem?” he asked, startled.

“You don’t need to go shouting my business for half the castle to hear.” They stood inside a hidden alcove, only a few inches apart.

“I thought you would come looking for me once we got back,” he said plaintively. “I was starting to wonder whether you had come back to Hogwarts at all.”

“Well, here I am. Mystery solved.”

To Draco’s horror, he leaned closer until their noses were nearly touching. He muttered, “As I said before, you were much nicer all those nights you wound up in my bed last year.”

“ _All those nights?_ It was two, maybe three times. Anyway.” Draco stepped back and straightened his cloak. “You’ve found me. Now stay away from me.”

He stared at him for a long moment, and then scowled, cheeks reddening. “ _You_ stay the hell away from _me_. Death Eater,” he spat, pushing past him.

Draco wanted badly to whip out his wand and hex the idiot, but he restrained himself. He had the sense that the Ministry was looking for any reason to expel him. Instead, he made his way to his Arithmancy class, fuming. The last two years at Hogwarts had been agonizing. To relieve some of his stress, he had spent the night with a few different students—Ravenclaws, Hufflepuffs, even, to his embarrassment, a Gryffindor one time. Never a Slytherin. He maintained a precarious position in his house, and he had to keep fellow Slytherins at a distance. But he had always made it clear that these were temporary arrangements, fueled by lust and a desperate need for distraction. He sought someone out whenever he needed to escape his thoughts and forget who he was for a few hours. Always other boys. He had long accepted, before he had even started at Hogwarts, that he had no interest in girls at all. Out of curiosity and boredom, he had snogged Pansy a few times, but to his mind that hardly counted.

Their Arithmancy class was in a cold, stone room occupied by rows of cramped desks. He took his usual seat next to Daphne, who was flipping through her textbook.

“I barely understood last week’s reading,” she moaned. “I’m completely hopeless at numbers charts.”

“Why are you taking Arithmancy, then?” he asked moodily. He was still irritated with what’s-his-name.

She sighed. “My mum was really, really skilled in Arithmancy when she was in school. She’s a Curse-Breaker now. So she wants me to sit N.E.W.T.s in all these subjects. Thinks it’s the only way I’ll be successful. I hate Ancient Runes, too, I’m absolute rubbish…”

Despite himself, Draco looked over at her, intrigued. “Your mother is a Curse-Breaker?”

“Yeah. Has been since she left Hogwarts.” She paused, and then added, “She’s a brilliant witch.”

“Right. I just thought…Well, the Ministry doesn’t really seem to trust the likes of us anymore, do they?”

“Oh. Well. Mum never fell in with…You-Know-Who, right? I mean, they’re Purebloods, my parents, but they never...” She shrugged. “She’s very ambitious, though, my mum. I guess that’s why we’re both in Slytherin.”

Draco stared at her. Daphne had never struck him as particularly ambitious. Then again, it was only recently that they had started talking; before their year had been dwindled down to so few numbers, Daphne had rarely spent time with Draco and his gang.

“I can’t stand all this rubbish,” she said, adding hastily, “No offense. But I’ve always wanted to do something with music. I’ve been playing piano since I was three.”

He tried to keep a straight face as he asked, “Music?”

“Yeah,” she said brightly. “I’ve composed my own pieces. The music class here is brilliant, although mum…she doesn’t really want me taking it for my N.E.W.T.s.”

“But you’re taking it, anyway?”

“Of course. Otherwise what’s the point?”

“The point?”

“Of coming back and doing all this? I’ll do whatever mum wants to make her happy, yeah, but once I’ve left…” She trailed off.

“I thought you wanted a Ministry job?”

“Sometimes I do. It’s so stable, you know? If you toe the line, you’re set for life. But then there’s this other part of me that wants to tell everyone to sod off and just do whatever I want.” She lowered her voice and leaned towards him conspiratorially. “There’s this music school in Dublin, right, and they only accept top students. You have to have Outstanding on your music N.E.WT. But I want to go _so_ badly.”

Privately, Draco thought the entire thing absurd—how could you earn enough money to live on by playing music?—but he was saved from having to say so as Vector bustled into the room.

After lunch, he had a free period, which he used to catch up on his Transfiguration homework. Delacour wasn’t going easy on them—in fact, so far she had assigned them more homework than all his other professors combined. Draco huddled in his little corner in the library, working through his notes from the previous class and trying to make sense of his poorly written diagram. As dinner rolled around, Draco packed up his things. All day, he had been nervous at the thought of having to teach his first lesson tonight. Much of his anxiety came from the fact that he had no idea what these study groups were supposed to look like. He had never taught a group of students before, let alone students who probably detested him. For all he knew, one of them would take the opportunity to hex him into oblivion. Maybe that was McGonagall’s goal.

He was quiet during dinner, mostly listening to the others debate who would win the first Quidditch match of the season between Slytherin and Gryffindor. The match was set for the first weekend of November, still almost two months away, but the interhouse rivalry and taunting had already begun.

“I don’t think it’s fair that they won’t let eighth years play,” said Nott.

“Why do you care?” Daphne laughed. “You never played, anyway.”

“I meant Draco,” Nott snapped. “With Draco as Seeker, they might have had a real shot this year. And as far as Beaters go, Goyle and Crabbe weren’t too—I mean…”

There was an uncomfortable silence as everyone stared down at their plates. Pansy broke it by saying, in an overly-cheery voice, “Blaise played, too. And I thought he was very good.”

Greg pushed away from the table and stalked out of the Great Hall. His cottage pie was untouched.

“Someone should go get him,” Nott muttered. “I didn’t mean…I just…”

“Let it go,” Zabini advised darkly. “For God’s sake, just let it go.”

The rest of dinner was miserable. None of the eighth-year Slytherins seemed in the mood for pudding, so they decided to retreat to the common room together.

“But we’ll be back for your lesson,” Pansy told him, touching his shoulder. Draco shrugged.

As they took off, he glanced over at the Gryffindor table. Potter was talking animatedly with Weasley. Fury boiled up in him. Did Potter not care at all what had happened at Hogwarts only a few months ago? How were he and his friends so carefree? In Potions class Potter was as unbothered as ever. On Wednesday he and Weasley had managed to make a spectacular mess of their potion, and Draco found them later laughing hysterically about the look on Slughorn’s face. He supposed N.E.W.T.s meant nothing to Saint Potter, who would be hired wherever he applied even if he didn’t sit a single exam.

He revised his Transfiguration essay as the Great Hall slowly emptied. As the last few students trickled out, in the corner of his eye Draco saw Potter bidding his friends goodbye. He refused to acknowledge him until Potter was standing directly in front of him, arms crossed.

“Malfoy,” he said.

Draco looked up as though he hasn’t noticed him there. Giving an exaggerated sigh, he said, “It’s that time, is it? Lucky me.”

Potter rolled his eyes. “We need to make some space.”

“I’ll take care of that,” said Proudfoot, approaching them from the High Table. “Let’s clear out the Gryffindor and Hufflepuff tables, that should be more than enough room.”

He silently looped his wand through the air, and the two trestle tables disappeared. Proudfoot paced through the Great Hall, surveying the space.

“So, boys,” he said, facing them. “What were you thinking for your first meeting?”

Potter said, “We thought basics, sir. See where they’re at. We’ll start with some O.W.L.-level spells and see how they get on.”

Proudfoot nodded. “Good. And what are you hoping to see from them?”

“Er.” Potter looked over at Draco, who said nothing.

“You need to decide on your teaching outcomes.” When they stared at him blankly, he continued, “What are your goals for these meetings? By the end of the year, what do you expect the students to be able to do?”

“I guess—I guess fifth years to be able to do their O.W.L.-level spells, seventh years to be at N.E.W.T. level, and sixth years…on their way to N.E.W.T. level?” Potter guessed. Draco snorted.

“Of course. That’s obvious. But as teachers, you need to decide on a curriculum of sorts. What exact spells will you be teaching, what constitutes a ‘pass,’ and how will you decide if a student has passed or not?”

“We’re not grading students, are we?” Potter asked nervously.

Proudfoot smiled. “Of course not. But I want you boys to take this seriously.”

“Professor,” Draco said as politely as he could, “I really have no interest in teaching. So I’m not quite sure why I’m expected to learn how to teach.”

“Why do _you_ think this is your assignment, then?” Proudfoot asked him. When Draco said nothing, he turned to Potter, who said uncertainly, “Because we didn’t have any other ideas?”

Proudfoot gave a short, barking laugh, and Draco eyed Potter in surprise. He had never considered why Potter was stuck doing these ridiculous lessons with him; he would have never guessed that Potter of all people had no idea what he planned to do after Hogwarts.

“Maybe. But you’re both remarkable wizards. Your problem is…you both need to take that raw talent and master it.”

“I take my studies very seriously, sir.” Draco bristled.

“I never said you don’t. But you’re aimless, Mr. Malfoy. And lacking confidence, I think.”

Potter laughed. “Malfoy, lacking confidence? He’s the most arrogant—”

“And _you_ , Mr. Potter,” said Proudfoot, speaking over him, “are performing magic wizards twice your age can’t accomplish, but you’re also rudderless. So take this opportunity to learn, to hone your own skills. You can’t teach something until you’ve mastered it. It’s not experts who teach. We become experts _through_ teaching. And I think we learn something about ourselves, too.” He looked as though he wanted to say more, but the first few students had wandered into the Great Hall. “Anyway, you’re up, boys. Best of luck.”

“You’re not staying?” Potter asked, alarmed.

“No, no, I would only get in the way. Let me know how it goes.” Proudfoot gave them one last smile and then stalked out of the Great Hall.

“For God’s sake,” Draco muttered in exasperation. “Why is everyone at this school barking mad? And what does he think he knows about me, anyway? He’s barely been here two weeks.”

“Write your father, then, he’ll get you out of it,” said Potter.

Draco blanched. “My father doesn’t—he’s far too busy for—”

But Potter had already sauntered over to his friends. Draco was surprised to see that a large number of students had shown up. Most of them he recognized. He nodded curtly at a group of fifth-year Slytherins standing together by the front of the room, and made his way over to his fellow eighth years. Greg, he noted, was not with them.

“Draco,” Pansy greeted him. “All ready?”

“This is all so stupid,” he spat.

“We were just discussing our own assignments,” said Nott. He drew himself up as he said, “It looks like I’ll be assisting Professor Flitwick with some very complicated Charms work.”

Millicent scoffed. “He’ll have you Scouring the classrooms, more like.”

“And what will _you_ be doing, then?” Nott scowled at her.

“Helping Sprout,” she said glumly, deflating somewhat. “I told them I want to work in the dragon reserves, but right now my Herbology grades are too low.”

“Professor Sprout isn’t so bad,” Daphne encouraged her. She then winced as she added, “I’m with Professor Vector…working with her on numbers charts…”

“I would _die_ if I had to do more numbers charts. I’m so glad I dropped Arithmancy after O.W.L.s,” said Nott.

“And you?” Draco asked Pansy.

“Blaise and I are helping Slughorn restock potions for the Hospital Wing. I guess their stores have been depleted since…what happened last year. And anyway,” she said brightly, “you need Potions for loads of careers, right? And he’s really well connected, Slughorn.”

Potter was calling for their attention and Draco, irritated, went to stand by his side at the front of the room. Conversation subsided as the students turned to face them.

“Right,” said Potter. “Thanks to all of you for coming. This is a bit of an unusual situation, as neither of us expected to be leading this. I guess we can think of it as a study group, or a bit like the D.A., for those of you who were members.” It took everything Draco had not to roll his eyes. “McGonagall wants us to practice our spellwork, especially since there were so many interruptions last year. And some of us, like myself, weren’t even here, so…”

“Too busy defeating Voldemort,” Longbottom called out. There was a great swell of laughter, as several Gryffindors whooped and clapped. Idiots. Draco kept his expression carefully neutral.

Potter gave a self-conscious grin and said, “Yeah. I guess. But anyway, it’s a good opportunity for all of us to prepare for our O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s, right? So, let’s take advantage. I thought—” He hesitated, looking over at Malfoy, and then said, “ _we_ thought it would be good to start with the basics. See where we’re at. So why don’t you all pair off, and we can start with some disarming spells?”

“Disarming?” Draco asked as the students broke off into groups. “What is this, a dueling club?”

Potter shrugged and walked over to the nearest pair, two fifth-year girls who giggled as he approached. This was ridiculous.

“Potter,” he said, following him angrily. “We’re _both_ supposed to be teaching this lesson.”

Potter looked back at him, surprised. “Yeah. We are.”

“Well then let me get a word in. And after disarming spells, we’re moving on to Cheering Charms, which are _actually_ on their exams.”

Before Potter could respond, Draco snapped at a nearby Hufflepuff, “Straighten your arm out. You look like a limp noodle.”

As the hour went on, they paced through the students, correcting where necessary. Draco had to grudgingly admit that Potter seemed to be in his element: smiling, exchanging jabs with his fellow Gryffindors, and offering words of encouragement to some of the younger or more nervous students. Draco, meanwhile, felt that familiar sense of dread rising in his chest again. He kept glancing at his wristwatch, willing the hour to go by.

“Somewhere you need to be?” Potter asked as they passed each other.

Draco pointedly ignored him, focusing instead on the Patil twins, who were practicing their Cheering Charms. Finally, it was eight o’clock, and Potter once again waved his arms to draw their attention.

“Alright, everyone, thanks for a great session,” he said. “We’re going to review what you need to know for your O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s, take into account what we’ve seen today, and then we’ll sort out a curriculum for the term.”

“We will?” Draco muttered to himself.

“See you all next week,” Potter said. “Until then, keep practicing. But you’ve all done really well.”

The Great Hall soon emptied of students. Some of them hung back to speak to Potter. Feeling awkward, Draco was relieved when he saw Pansy approaching him, smiling brightly.

“You were great, Draco,” she said. He scoffed.

“I still don’t see the point in this,” he complained. “Half of them can’t even manage a proper Cheering Charm. Isn’t this the faculty’s job?”

“They’ll learn,” she encouraged him. “You’ll teach them. You’re brilliant.”

Draco refused to let her see his gratitude at her remarks. Instead, he grimaced and said, “Let’s go. Potter will be busy with his admirers for ages.”

They joined the other Slytherins and were about to leave when Potter called, “Hey, Malfoy!”

He spun around, irritated.

“Let’s meet Saturday morning to sort things out, yeah? In the library, nine o’clock.”

“Ten,” he challenged, purely because he was sick of Potter dictating things. Before the other man could say anything, he stalked out of the Great Hall.


	5. v.

All day Friday, Pansy, Daphne, and Millicent nattered on about the trip to Hogsmeade. McGonagall had gotten wind of their plans somehow, and at dinner, she sternly reminded them to make good choices and to avoid disrupting the younger students. The eighth years tittered throughout her lecture. Draco had given in to Pansy’s nagging and agreed to come—but only for an hour. By the time they left the castle and headed for Hogsmeade, it was growing dark, and the sun had nearly set. Nott insisted that they visit Honeydukes first so that he could stock up on sugar quills and toffees. The shop was as busy as ever: children trailing after their parents, demanding sweets; people squeezing through the aisles to get to their confectionaries of choice; and a large group of witches who stood giggling over a barrel of Every Flavoured Beans. Draco wove through the stacks of sweets, pausing to peruse a bucket of Fizzing Whizzbees. He was nervous, not least of all because he risked coming face-to-face with Madam Rosmerta. There was also the question of whether the other eighth years were actually willing to have a drink with the Slytherins, something Draco doubted very much. At last, Nott made his purchases and they headed for the Three Broomsticks.

The pub was filled mostly with eighth years. They had pushed several tables together and sat crammed around them. Draco squeezed in between Pansy and Blaise; he was grateful to find himself pressed near the wall, where Madam Rosmerta hopefully would not see him. But he was not so lucky. As she made her way to their table, two large pitchers in her hands, she froze as her eyes fell on Draco. She turned to Potter, who was seated at the head of the table—of course—and though Draco could not make out what they were saying over the din of the pub, it looked as though they were arguing. Finally, Rosmerta threw Draco a nasty glare and then slammed the pitchers down on the table before bustling away.

Pansy was looking at him apprehensively. “It’s okay, Draco,” she said, leaning forward so that he could hear her. When he didn’t answer, she reached for a pitcher and poured out some firewhisky for their side of the table. It seemed that most of the eighth years were there: sitting directly across from the Slytherins were the Gryffindors; on the left side of the table were the Ravenclaws; and along the right side, the Hufflepuffs. Most everyone seemed in high spirits; the Ravenclaws were engaged in a boisterous debate regarding the merits of brass versus copper cauldrons. He was surprised to find that the Slytherins were welcomed, if not warmly, then at least politely. Sue Li had started up a conversation with Daphne, and Macmillan called out to Nott, reminding him of their ongoing wager regarding the upcoming Quidditch match.

“Draco,” Blaise said after taking a sip of his drink. “I had someone asking about you the other day.”

“And who was that?”

“Oh, some bloke from Hufflepuff. Whitby, was it?” Blaise traced a finger along the fine lines in the table, smiling to himself. “He was looking for you.”

“What would I want with _him_?” he spat. He took a drink and almost instantly felt the silky warmth trickle through him.

“I don’t know. He seemed to think you had enjoyed his company last year.” Zabini glanced at him and smirked.

“For fuck’s sake,” Draco murmured, taking a deeper swig.

“I’m hurt, Draco,” Zabini quipped. He was speaking in a low voice that Draco hoped the others couldn’t hear. “You go sniffing around the Hufflepuffs’ dorms before coming to me?” When he said nothing, Zabini added, “I seem to distinctly remember a night back in sixth year…maybe you’ve forgotten…”

There _had_ been one time. They had all gotten spectacularly drunk after exams, and somehow Draco had ended up in Blaise’s bed, in his lap, grinding against him as they snogged.

“It wasn’t a _night_ , _”_ he protested. And this was true: as Zabini had started to unbutton his shirt, Draco had pushed him away and retreated to his own bed. Things had been tense between them for weeks after.

“And yet I gather there were several nights with Whitby?” Zabini drawled. “To think Draco Malfoy would stoop so low…shagging a Hufflepuff. I wonder what your father would say.”

 _‘My father’s so drunk these days he doesn’t know his arse from his elbow,’_ he wanted to say. Instead, he shrugged and turned to the other Slytherins, who were discussing their internships. 

Thomas and Finnigan bought another round for the table. Instead of the calming effect Draco had come to expect from firewhisky, he found himself growing anxious. The room was hot. Zabini’s presence set him on edge, though he couldn’t quite say why. He was used to his taunts, and the strange tension between them. But for some reason it grated on him now. Abruptly, he rose, causing the half-empty glasses on the table to wobble. Several people looked up at him as he squeezed past Zabini and headed for the pub’s side door. It led to a dingy alleyway. He pushed back memories of how he had become acquainted with this alley—it had been one of his meeting places for conversing in hushed tones with other Death Eaters—and he leaned back against the pub’s cool stone wall. It was chilly out; he shoved his hands into his pockets. His breath misted in front of him. Further down the alley, he saw two figures entwined around one another. Students, perhaps. He couldn’t make out who they were. Anyway, it didn’t matter. He felt saner out here. More like himself. He wondered vaguely if it would be safe to walk back to Hogwarts alone, if the others would even notice his absence…

He jumped as the pub door burst open. To his surprise, Potter came stumbling out.

“Easy, Potter,” Draco hissed, holding out an arm to stop them from colliding. But Potter steadied himself. The door swung back behind him.

“Malfoy,” he said, looking up at him with a curious expression on his face.

“Following me again, are you?” Draco drawled. “That seems a bit beneath you now.”

Potter frowned. “I was looking for—never mind.”

“Piss off, Potter.” He was suddenly angry. “What do you think I’m up to now? The Dark Lord’s gone, isn’t he? So what the hell could you possibly suspect me of?”

Potter blinked at him.

Furious, Draco made to push past him back into the pub, but Potter gripped his arm. Draco struggled against him, ripping his arm from Potter’s grasp. He snarled, but Potter didn’t seem angry—he merely stared at him, as though he had never seen him properly before.

“What are you playing at?” A horrible thought suddenly occurred to him. “You want me to fight you, don’t you—want me expelled.”

Potter frowned. “I don’t want you expelled.”

“Whatever. Let me by. And stay the fuck away from me.” He couldn’t explain his rage, only that it was fueled by his mind’s attempt at working through all the possible ways that Potter could get him and his family into further trouble. He stormed back into the pub and found Pansy, who had moved her chair and was now sitting next to Padma Patil. They were giggling together; somehow that irritated him further.

“I’m leaving,” he told her.

“What? Why?” she asked, confused. “Oh, Draco, come sit with us. You have to hear this—yesterday some of the Ravenclaws caught Flitwick doing the most _ridiculous_ —”

Draco glanced over at Patil, whose expression had hardened.

“See you tomorrow,” he said flatly. Pansy reached for his hand, but he evaded her and left before he lost his temper.

***

The next morning, he woke up groggy. He wasn’t hungover after only two drinks, but he was exhausted. Although his wristwatch told him it was already nine, he was tempted to fall back asleep until he remembered his stupid meeting with Potter. By the time he had showered, brushed his teeth, and dressed, he had no time for breakfast, and so he made his way directly to the library. Potter was sitting at a table alone—Draco was surprised to find that he didn’t have his usual gaggle of admirers. Draco dropped his satchel on the desk and then slid into the seat across from Potter, who scowled at him. There was an uncomfortable silence as he took a quill and an inkpot out of his bag. As Draco searched for a spare bit of parchment, his stomach lurched when he noticed his old wand sitting at the bottom of the bag. He hadn’t been able to decide where to keep it, and so he left it in his satchel, strangely soothed by its constant presence throughout the day.

“Right.” He looked up at Potter, who was scribbling some notes. “What’s that?”

“Hermione gave me a list of O.W.L.- and N.E.W.T.-level spells. We’ll go through them and decide what to practice each week.”

“Oh, we will, will we?” he snapped. “You’re always dictating everything.”

“Fine then.” Potter exhaled and sat back in his chair, throwing his quill down. “You take over.”

Draco raised his eyebrows. “Really, Potter? Do your temper tantrums usually work on your little friends?”

Potter crossed his arms. “Go on. Plan the lessons, then.”

Draco reached over and snatched up the list Granger had drawn. Most of the N.E.W.T.-level spells, he suspected, would be over his classmates’ heads.

“You really think Longbottom is going to be able to perform a Protean Charm?” he scoffed.

“Neville is twice the wizard you’ll ever be,” Potter muttered.

Draco laughed nastily at that. “I’m sure.” He tossed Granger’s list back to Potter’s side of the table. “I don’t give a damn what we do. Make something up.”

“Well, there’s no way we’ll be able to cover everything. Our best bet is to pick one spell every week or two and focus on that.”

“Granger came up with that plan, did she?”

Potter ignored him and went on, “Why don’t we make a list of what we think is most important, and then we’ll compare?”

“Sure. Fine. Whatever.” Draco set to work, reaching back into his memories of his O.W.L. exams to try to recall which spells had been featured most heavily, and which had given him the hardest time. There was also the matter of preparing the upper-year students for N.E.W.T.s. Surely, they could all use some practice on the more advanced Charms. And human Transfiguration would be key. They would also need to work on their nonverbal spells. As Draco flipped through his Transfiguration textbook, he found himself distracted by Potter, who kept glancing at a spot beside Draco’s head.

“Is everything alright, Potter?” he snapped.

“Owen Cauldwell,” Potter mumbled. “Behind you.”

Draco looked over his shoulder, and saw Cauldwell smirking at him. He frowned and turned back to his work. As he scribbled, Potter said more urgently, “He keeps staring at you.”

“Yeah.”

“But _why_?”

“Dunno.” Draco shrugged. “We shagged once. Ever since then he’s been rather keen on me.”

“You _what?_ ” Potter yelped. He dropped the textbook he had been holding with a loud _thump_. From off in the distance, they heard Madam Pince shush them angrily. Draco rolled his eyes and dipped his quill into his inkpot.

“But—but— _why?_ ” Potter spluttered. Draco would have found his reaction rather funny if he weren’t so irritated.

“I don’t know, Potter,” he said. “Why do you think people shag one another?”

Potter was staring at him. Had Potter never heard of blokes sleeping with other blokes before? Surely he wasn’t _that_ naïve. Unsettled, Draco bent over his work and ignored Potter until he finally picked up his own quill and went back to his list.

“Done,” Potter said, leaning back in his chair. “Should we…compare our lists, then?”

They found that they agreed on most of the curriculum, although there were a few points of contention. Potter felt that nonverbal spells were probably beyond their abilities, and that they should leave those to the faculty to teach; Draco, on the other hand, refused to budge, arguing repeatedly that nonverbal spells could be the difference between Exceeds Expectations and Outstanding.

“Thought you didn’t care,” Potter mused as he rewrote a section of their syllabus.

“I don’t,” he said. “But I don’t want Proudfoot nagging us all year.”

As Potter glanced over at Cauldwell yet again, Draco hissed, “Would you stop staring? Honestly, Potter, I didn’t know you were such a prude. I’m sure you have witches lining up, ready to have a turn.” At that Potter turned scarlet.

“Done,” Draco said, passing his revised list over to Potter. “Can we go now?”

Potter was still writing something out. “So next week we work on Summoning Charms. Everyone who’s already mastered those can try their hand at some nonverbal magic.”

“Right. Fine. Are we done?” Without waiting for an answer, Draco started to pack up his things.

“Malfoy,” Potter started. He stopped, hesitated, and then went on, “D’you ever…” He trailed off, staring at him in a way that Draco found extremely disconcerting.

“Do I what, Potter?” he growled.

Potter was shaking his head. “Nothing. Forget about it.”

Annoyed, Draco swung his satchel over his shoulder and strode out of the library, deliberately ignoring Cauldwell. For a moment, he allowed himself to wonder what Potter had wanted to say, but he put it out of his mind. He had a massive amount of homework to get through, and he had promised Pansy he would help her with her Potions essay in exchange for the chocolate truffles her parents had sent her.


	6. vi.

Wednesday morning Callidus swooped in at breakfast, bearing a note from his father. The Great Hall was quite lively—Quidditch practices had started in earnest over the weekend, and excitement for the upcoming match had reached an all-time high. No doubt the students’ anticipation was due, in large part, to the fact that Quidditch matches had been banned last year. The faculty had been working all summer to restore the pitch. Draco, who had missed most of the matches in his sixth year, couldn’t decide whether or not he was excited for the upcoming game between Slytherin and Gryffindor. He had dismissed it all as childish rubbish, and yet he had to admit that there was a small part of him that relished the possibility of Slytherin winning against Gryffindor, their old rivals.

As he unfurled his father’s note, Draco was surprised to find that the letter consisted only of two lines: _Need to talk to you by Floo. Friday morning at two o’clock in your common room._ He stared at the parchment. His father had spoken to him through Floo while he was at Hogwarts only a handful of times, and always in relation to work they were doing for the Dark Lord. Perhaps he wanted to discuss his hearing, although that wasn’t until the fifth of October. Was there something he wanted Draco to do to help with his trial? What could he possibly do? Surely his father’s lawyers would have thought up some means of making him useful months ago. Before the others could sneak a look, Draco crumpled up the parchment and stuffed it in his pocket, intending to burn it later. He sent Callidus off with a bit of bacon.

That afternoon they had double Potions with Gryffindor. Slughorn had them working on Polyjuice Potions, which at first they had been very excited about, before realizing the massive amount of work required. Draco sat with Zabini; they worked in silence. As Draco checked their lacewing flies, which had been stewing for a week, Zabini crushed Bicorn horn with a mortar and pestle. Satisfied with the lacewings, Draco consulted his textbook: _three measures of Boomslang skin._ He donned his dragon-hide gloves and then used his knife to carefully scrape through the dried skin. The tough, scaly hide eventually gave way to the brown flesh beneath. He had worked with Boomslang skin before, but for some reason the sight made him nauseous. Bits of dried flesh clung to the blade, while the larger pieces settled in a clump on his cutting board.

Draco was staring down at the knife in his hand, considering the blade’s steel, when he suddenly flashed back to the Manor, to that horrific moment when his aunt had used her knife to carve deep into Granger’s flesh—he had wanted desperately to look away, and yet hadn’t dared, and so had he stared, transfixed, as Granger writhed. The blade had pierced through her skin so easily, slicing through it like butter, until it was obscured entirely by Granger’s blood, weeping out of her wounds. Draco had seen the other Death Eaters torture people before, but it had always been with magic. It was still gruesome, and he still wept at night, but rarely had he seen marks on flesh. There had been something savage about the way his aunt had maimed Granger.

While the room around him was noisy with the sounds of students conversing, the slow bubble of stewing lacewing flies, and the thwack of knives coming down on wooden cutting boards, Draco could hardly hear anything. It was as though his head was being held underwater. Struggling to take a breath, hands shaking, he stared down at the knife in his hands. He needed to get out. Now. He thought of just running out the door, but he had enough sense about him to know that he would have to explain himself after. His panic mingled with the anxiety of someone looking over and noticing the state he was in. He was terrified of drawing attention to himself. And yet he desperately needed fresh air; he could hardly breathe. Without thinking, he peeled off his gloves, cast them aside, and sliced deep into his index and middle fingers. At once, blood welled up, swelling into a bead and then trickling onto the steel. Rather than the nausea he had expected, he felt the most surreal sense of relief.

"Draco, what the fuck—” Blaise murmured next to him.

“Professor,” Draco called out. “Professor, I’ve cut myself.”

Slughorn had been leaning over Granger’s cauldron. He jumped up, startled. “Mr. Malfoy?”

“I’ve cut myself, sir,” he repeated, holding up his bloody hand.

“Good God, boy,” Slughorn gasped. The entire class had turned to stare at Draco, but he focused solely on Slughorn, urging himself to stay calm.

“I need to see Madam Pomfrey.”

“Well, yes, go on, then, but _why_ weren’t you wearing your gloves? This is a N.E.W.T.-level class, Mr. Malfoy. You of all people should know to wear your gloves…”

But Draco wasn’t listening. He flung his things into his satchel and, without saying goodbye to Zabini, rushed out of the classroom. As he passed by the Gryffindors, he saw that Weasley was smirking, while Potter stared at him impassively.

“Of all the things…the Headmistress will have my head,” he heard Slughorn cry as he sped down the corridor and up the stairs to the entrance hall. He pushed past the double doors and inhaled deeply as the cool air hit his face. His aunt’s harsh, manic face still haunted him and so he walked, bent against the wind, hands deep in his pockets. He could have done a simple Warming Charm, but the cold cut through his memories and seemed to dissipate them. He wound his way around the lake, watching as the wind whipped up the rough water. He knew classes had ended when he heard laughter coming from the castle—looking over, he saw a few students streaming out onto the grounds, no doubt looking to enjoy some fresh air before nightfall. As the sun started to set and everyone else went back in for dinner, Draco sat by the lake. The ground was hard and cold, and so he relented and cast a Warming Charm. By now his thoughts had slowed, but he still couldn’t bring himself to head back to the castle. He was contemplating whether or not he could sleep outside under the stars, with the cool air to comfort him—whether that would be safe, whether anyone would even notice or care—when he heard someone walking up behind him.

“Malfoy.” Draco groaned. Anyone but Zabini. In the past, he would have jumped to his feet, but he was just so _tired_ , so sick of being vigilant. He scowled as Zabini sat next to him.

“It’s freezing out here,” Blaise complained. Draco heard him cast a Warming Charm. He refused to look over at him. “It’s eight o’clock, you know. You missed dinner.”

“Looking for me, were you?” Draco meant to taunt him, but his voice was flat. The energy had been completely sucked out of him. As the wind thrashed the water, he swore he could still hear his aunt’s piercing laugh and Granger’s shrieks. A shudder passed through him.

“What happened in class?”

“Cut myself.”

Zabini snorted. “No, you didn’t. Come off it. Why weren’t you wearing your gloves?”

“I forgot.” Draco was starting to feel irritated.

“Right. And why did you look ready to faint?”

“Did you see how deeply I cut myself?” he asked testily. In truth, he _had_ cut deeper than intended. But he had no interest in seeing Pomfrey—the dull, throbbing ache in his fingers was comforting. He held up his hand to show Blaise the deep laceration.

“How did you manage to cut yourself across the joint like that, then? You were shredding Boomslang.”

Draco hastily tucked his hand back into his cloak. He said nothing.

“Malfoy. Draco. You’re losing it, mate. This isn’t like you at all.”

“You don’t know anything about me.”

“Really?” All at once, Zabini was straddling his lap. Draco made to push him off, but Blaise held him down. “Don’t know anything about you, do I? I know you like _this._ ” He ground his hips down roughly.

“Get off me,” he snarled.

"What’s gotten into you?” Blaise murmured, searching his face. “You’re different from how you were last year. Even at the worst of it, you were never like this.”

“Would you stop? You’re acting like my mother.”

Blaise smirked. “I’m not worried about you, if that’s your concern. But still…” He leaned forward and traced his lips across Draco’s jaw, whispering, “You haven’t been much fun lately. Remember all the fun we used to get up to?”

“One time,” Draco protested.

“One time in my bed, maybe, but I seem to remember others…” Zabini pressed a kiss to Draco’s neck.

Suddenly Draco came to his senses, and he pushed Blaise off angrily. “Would you stop it?” he gasped. “What’s _wrong_ with you? Just leave me alone.”

Blaise got to his feet, looking down at him coldly.

“Just go,” said Draco, more pitifully than he had meant to. “You don’t understand what I—this isn’t how—”

“I’m one of the few people who’s still bothered to give a damn about you,” Zabini said quietly. “Don’t come crawling back to me when you have no one left at all.” And with that, he swept back to the castle. It was so dark now that Draco could hardly make out his retreating figure. He sat by the lake for at least another hour before heading back to the castle himself.

***

At the very least, their study group was more organized than it had been last week. Nearly every fifth-, sixth-, seventh-, and eighth-year student attended; the Great Hall was so crowded that Proudfoot cleared away the Ravenclaw table as well before leaving them to it. Most of the students opted to practice their Summoning Charms. Potter, to Draco’s surprise, encouraged them to try their hand at casting nonverbally.

“Even if you’re in fifth year,” he said to the gathered students as they broke off into pairs, “it’s really important to start working on nonverbal magic. Maybe take the last fifteen minutes of today’s session to try it.”

“Can we get a few pointers?” asked a fifth-year Gryffindor Draco didn’t know.

“Er—right.” Draco noticed Potter glancing over at Granger, who nodded at him. “Nonverbal magic. The trick is…you want to _really_ concentrate. And, er, think about what you mean to do.”

Draco sneered. He knew from classes that Potter wasn’t particularly strong in nonverbal magic. Standing next to Potter, arms crossed, Draco said quietly, “You need to clear your mind first.”

Potter turned towards him with a start—it was the first time he had ever addressed the group of students as a whole during one of these sessions. He continued: “It’s going to take longer at first. You need to clear your mind. And then repeat the spell to yourself—nonverbally, obviously. You have to envision it. In your mind, _see_ the spell coming out of your wand. If you're Summoning something, _see_ whatever it is flying towards you. You have to be confident. And the most important thing is to practice.” He eyed Potter critically, and then said, “Here, Potter, hex me.”

“What?” There was a murmur among the students.

Draco scoffed. “Go on. I didn’t say to _curse_ me. Just hex me. Verbally, if you want.”

He stepped a few paces away from Potter and then pulled out his wand.

“Right then.” Potter squared his shoulders, paused for a moment, and then cast, “ _Titillando_!”

Draco whipped his wand through the air and Potter’s spell rebounded off his Shield Charm. There was a burst of applause from the Slytherins, led by Pansy, who was beaming at him; he rolled his eyes. “The point is,” he said, “you can react before your opponent knows what you’re going to do. And you can perform magic much more quickly. But it takes a lot of practice. Pick one spell you know well and then work at it until you’re able to cast nonverbally every time you try it. Then move on to another one. It’s going to take a lot of practice.”

“Let’s start practicing, then,” said Potter. “Remember, Summoning Charms, and once you’ve got the hang of it, try nonverbally.” His cheeks were pink, and Draco thought with amusement that perhaps he was embarrassed at having been bested in front of his admirers. The students worked on Summoning various items they had left scattered throughout the Great Hall—goblets, platters, cutlery—and a few of them also worked on their Banishing Charms. Draco and Potter circulated among them; he was particularly gleeful at the opportunity to correct the Gryffindor students as they failed to cast nonverbally. Soon the hour was up, and Potter dismissed them, urging them to practice their Summoning Charms, which could use some work all around.

Draco was gathering his things at the Slytherin table when Potter came up to him. “Malfoy. Teach me how to do nonverbal magic.”

“What? No.” Draco scowled.

“Come on. Don’t be a prat.”

“What a great way to get someone to do you a favour,” Draco said scathingly. He turned from Potter and went to join Pansy and Daphne, who were waiting for him.

“Please? Look, maybe there’s something I can teach you? Some spell, or—”

“Potter, I said no. I have a million other things to do, and although it might surprise you, not everyone wants to spend their free time at your beck and call.”

“I’ll pay you,” he said, “whatever you want.”

Draco glared over his shoulder at him. “I don’t need your bloody money, Potter, for fuck’s sake. Just leave me alone.”

He grabbed Pansy by the arm and led her out to the entrance hall, Daphne close behind them.

“What was _that_ about?” Pansy asked, bewildered.

"Fucking Potter,” he growled. “I don’t know if he thinks I owe him now, because of what happened with my—with my trial, and him saying what he said—of course they weren’t going to charge me anyway, I was a minor when it all…anyway. He’s so bloody arrogant. He came up to me and just told me to teach him nonverbal magic.”

“Well, you’re teaching everyone else, aren’t you?” Daphne asked from his side.

“I have no choice,” he said. “But this is different. I don’t know where he gets the nerve to just boss people around. Saint Potter, he’s probably never had anyone tell him ‘no’ his entire life. And do you know what he said? He offered to _pay_ me.”

Pansy threw back her head and laughed. “ _Pay_ you? What, a Galleon an hour? You could start yourself a real business, Draco. There’s your plan for after Hogwarts.”

“Well, I didn’t accept, obviously,” he sniffed. “I’m telling you: he thinks I owe him one now. Such a bloody wanker, I wish he’d leave me the hell alone. How many years has it been of him stalking me through the castle? I’m so sick of him.”

They entered the Slytherin common room, and with a twist of his stomach Draco recalled that he was supposed to be meeting his father by Floo in a few hours. He bid Pansy and Daphne goodnight, feigning a headache, and retreated to his dormitory. It was an early night for him—usually he was awake until at least midnight—but he had another busy day of classes tomorrow, and he wasn’t sure if he would have time to sleep after speaking with his father. He tried to calm himself down by breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth, a technique that usually lessened the worst of his anxiety, but he couldn’t manage to fall asleep. As the night wore on, he heard Nott, Zabini, and Goyle enter their dorm, change into their pyjamas, and then climb into their respective beds. Finally, it was quiet once again.

Draco checked his watch—one o’clock. As he watched the minutes tick by, he grew nervous. He hated these Floo meetings with his father. Leading up to them, he spent hours worrying about whether the common room would be empty when the time came, and if not, how to clear it. What would he do if they were caught? And what did his father want with him this time? Even though he was of age, there was a part of him that still feared his father. They had a complicated relationship—before, he had admired his father, and for a long time, he had wanted desperately to be like him, but they weren’t very close. He wondered sometimes about other people’s relationships with their fathers: if they ever ran out of things to say, or felt uncomfortable around them, or were forced to swallow bitter resentment when they did everything they could to gain their approval and their efforts went unnoticed. And then there was the question of his father’s dubious morals. He wasn’t sure what his father believed in anymore, but he had started to suspect that they held differing opinions.

Five minutes before two o’clock, Draco pulled back the curtains and slipped quietly out of bed. The room was eerily still. He trod down the stairs, clinging tightly to the rail, and was relieved to find the common room empty. Pulling up an armchair, Draco had barely sat down when his father’s face appeared in the fire. No matter how many times they spoke through Floo, the sight always unnerved him—tonight even more so given his father’s appearance. He was unshaven, and his cheeks were sunken. Of course, his father had lost weight over the summer, but Draco didn’t quite remember him looking so skeletal.

“Draco,” he said softly. “We’re alone, I presume?”

He nodded. “The common room was empty.”

“Good.” His father was silent for a moment, assessing him, and then said, “You’re preparing for your N.E.W.T.s?”

“Yes.”

“And you’re taking, er, what was it, again? Transfiguration…” He trailed off.

“Transfiguration, Charms, Defense, Potions, Herbology, Ancient Runes, Arithmancy,” he listed dully. He wanted to tell his father to get to the point—this was the most they had spoken since before summer, and it felt horribly forced.

“Good…very good.” His father cleared his throat, and then said, “Well, Draco. We have a bit of a difficult matter we need to discuss. As you know, my next hearing is October fifth. Things are…not going very well.”

Draco leaned forward.

“You see, Draco…I’ll be blunt. It looks as though I’m facing several years in Azkaban, if not a lifetime. As you can imagine, this has been very distressing for your mother.”

When his father said nothing after several moments, Draco asked, “What about your lawyers? Can’t they do anything? Surely they must be working on some sort of—”

“Enough,” his father barked. And, although he was really quite pathetic, with his limp hair and his scruffy, unkempt face, Draco stopped himself at once, the meek little boy in him cowering back. “What sort of money do you think I have to keep paying them with? I can’t even begin to tell you the amount that’s gone into these bloody legal fees—your poor mother’s fortune, to speak nothing of my own investments.”

“Is that why you had to withdraw money from my account?” Draco asked. He didn’t want to push his father too far, but the curiosity was eating away at him.

“Er—no.” He frowned. “No. That was a different business. And probably best kept to yourself. The point is, your mother and I need your help, Draco. We’re in a very bad spot. By now, most of the others have settled on plea bargains, and of course it’s all the usual nonsense—saying they were under the Imperius Curse or pointing the finger elsewhere.”

“And the Wizengamot will believe that?” Draco asked hotly.

“How should I know what the Wizengamot will and will not believe?” his father snapped. “They’ve got more than enough rope to hang me with.”

“What can we do, then?” he mumbled.

His father exhaled. “For now, I need you to conduct a business arrangement for me.”

“A business arrangement?” He was rarely trusted with any of his father’s business. Occasionally, he had been allowed to tag along during a meeting, quickly forgotten as his father drank with his friends and discussed complicated portfolios and negotiations he couldn’t quite follow. Much of it, he had gathered, was highly illegal.

“Yes. Your next Hogsmeade weekend is in two weeks. I need you to go to Dervish and Banges and meet with one of my associates—Rochefort—he’s visiting from France and staying at the inn. He’ll give you a package. We aren’t allowed visitors at the Manor, but I’m quite sure they’ll allow you to visit for Christmas. So hang on to that package until then. Keep it safe. Can you do that?”

“Yes. But why can’t I just send it over with Callidus?”

“Our mail is being monitored by the Ministry.” His father grimaced. “And I’m almost positive our Floo network is being watched. That’s why I had to ask—well, never mind.”

“Father? Your Floo is being watched?” Draco sat up in alarm. “If they catch you, if they suspect you of anything—”

“I need you to focus, Draco,” he hissed. “Listen to me: your next Hogsmeade weekend, meet Rochefort in Dervish and Banges. You’ll know him when you see him. Be there Saturday around noon. Bring the package back to Hogwarts, and keep it safe. Do you understand?”

“Well, yes, I understand, but won’t the Ministry be tracking me as well?”

“Probably. And that’s why you’re to meet him in Dervish and Banges. Be discreet. Tell your friends you need a new pair of gloves or something. And on that note…” His father gave a short cough, and then said, “Our finances are a bit tight at the moment. I may be withdrawing additional funds from your account; I’ll need you to authorize those withdrawals. We need to avoid any discretionary spending. I’m sure you understand. I should be able to pull together your winter tuition, but even that…anyway…Watch your spending until this is all sorted. I’m not sure how much I’ll have for you once you’re done school, to get yourself started, but…we’ll manage.”

Draco jumped as a loud _bang_ echoed from within the fireplace. His father looked over his shoulder and then turned back to him. “Draco, I need to go. Do as I’ve said. And do _not_ open the package. I’ll write you shortly.”

And with that, his father’s face disappeared. The fire crackled low in the hearth, as though Lucius Malfoy’s face had not been there a moment earlier. It could have all been a dream, and Draco was sorely tempted to go back to bed, wake up in the morning, and pretend none of it had happened. He was experiencing a sickening sense of déjà vu: the last time he had tried to sneak something into Hogwarts, it had ended disastrously. But his only other option was to ignore his father. That wouldn’t be impossible, given that his influence had shrunk substantially, but if he had learned anything from their conversation just now, it was that his father was not as helpless as he had thought. It seemed that he was not entirely without friends—though he wondered whether these were really friends, or rather vultures come to prey on the last of the Malfoy fortune. And, of course, there was the question of this package he was meant to collect. He had a suspicion that it was something illegal, probably some dangerous artifact this Rochefort had acquired from God knew where. But what was it? And how would it help his father evade Azkaban? And, perhaps more pressingly, how was his father so sure that the Ministry couldn’t monitor their Floo conversations?

Too unsettled to sleep, Draco sat by the fire until his back tightened up. Checking his watch, he saw that it was five o’clock. Utterly exhausted, he dragged himself up to the dormitory before the others woke. Thankfully, they were still asleep. He paused at the doorway for a moment, jealous that they had enjoyed a night of undisturbed sleep—or, at the very least, a night unbothered by their manic fathers’ ridiculous requests. Not for the first time, he felt the desperate urge to escape his life, to no longer be Draco Malfoy, to have been born some nobody in an ordinary family with a life like everyone else. But, as his father would have scolded him, it was ridiculous to wish for things that could never be. And so he shook himself out of his reverie and started to get ready for the day.


	7. vii.

Draco was quickly bogged down with work. Delacour was still relentless: she had threatened them with a quiz sometime in the near future, and they had no idea whether it would be written, practical, or both. She was very particular about their wandwork, repeating over and over the correct way to hold one’s wand during human Transfiguration. Her intense focus on the most minute details was rather infuriating, but Draco had to admit that his spells _had_ improved under her tutelage. Sprout, meanwhile, had them caring for their own Bouncing Bulbs, which they were expected to visit every couple of evenings to water and tend to. And while Proudfoot organized the majority of their classes around practical drills, he assigned them complicated theoretical essays that required them to consult several books in the library. More than once Draco cursed himself for taking so many N.E.W.T.s—Granger was the only other one taking seven, to his knowledge—but he needed every advantage he could get.

As their Hogsmeade weekend loomed closer, Draco found himself distracted more often than not. He would be reading through a passage from his textbook when suddenly his mind slipped off, flipping through various worst-case scenarios and how these might affect his parents and their future prospects. He was worried about his father’s hearing. The _Prophet_ was printing detailed articles describing his father’s past, his charges, and his lawyers’ arguments. He had long ago canceled his subscription, and he noticed that Pansy had stopped reading the paper at breakfast, presumably out of solidarity. Nott, of course, was as maddening as ever, reading out long passages to them and commenting as he went. Draco knew it was nerves, as his own father’s trial was set to begin soon. On a bright Tuesday afternoon during their free period, Nott had decided to treat them to one of his analyses as they lounged in the courtyard.

“It says here that your father had some rather dubious dealings in Bulgaria, Draco,” he drawled. “Something to do with illicit artifacts. Things aren’t looking very good for him, are they? It says he’s lost most of his fortune trying to stay out of Azkaban.”

“Pity your father, then,” Draco said sharply. “Even before his trial he never had two Sickles to rub together.”

Nott flushed and opened his mouth to reply when they heard someone call “Malfoy!” Looking over, Draco scowled as he saw Potter standing in the entryway.

“Malfoy,” Potter said. “Come here, I need to talk to you about this week’s lesson.”

“Go on, Draco, you’re being summoned,” Nott sneered.

Draco glared at Nott, shouldered his satchel, and then marched off towards Potter. “I’m not a dog,” he snapped. “You can’t just call me wherever you please.”

“I wanted to talk to you alone,” Potter said. “Here.” He led Draco further along the colonnade, out of earshot.

"What is it?”

“Listen,” Potter said in a low voice, “about nonverbal magic—”

Draco gave an exasperated sigh. “Would you stop with that? I said no.”

“I could teach you how to cast a Patronus.”

“No, Potter.”

“Come on.

“Ask Granger.”

“She…” Potter scowled. “I’ve never seen anyone our age cast a nonverbal Shield Charm like that.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere. Why do you need to do a nonverbal Shield Charm, anyway? Is there some new Dark wizard out to get you that I haven’t heard of?”

“Malfoy. Please? I’ll teach you whatever I can. Or I’ll pay you.”

Something unpleasant coiled in Draco’s stomach. He thought back to what his father had said about their finances. It seemed that they hardly had the means to cover his tuition. For years now, Draco had envisioned his life after Hogwarts: moving out on his own, renting a flat somewhere, and perhaps traveling before taking up a Ministry job. He had also considered post-graduate studies, which would cost him a small fortune. Pushing away the voice of doubt screaming at him, he said, “Fine. We’ll meet every Tuesday night at nine. Once a week. Twenty Galleons an hour.”

Potter recoiled. “Twenty Galleons? Are you mad?”

Draco shrugged. “Take it or leave it.”

“Fine. Tuesdays. We’ll start tonight. Meet me in the entrance hall.”

“Always need an audience, don’t you, Potter?” he scoffed.

“We’re not _practicing_ in the entrance hall,” Potter snapped. “Just meet me there. And don’t tell anyone.”

“What the hell am I going to tell everyone I’m doing for an hour?” he asked.

“Make something up. Say you have detention.” Potter pushed past him and slipped back indoors. Draco stood there for a moment, staring at the entryway. He must have absolutely lost his mind. The whole thing was mad. Surely there must be other students, even faculty, lining up to teach Saint Potter how to do nonverbal magic. And they had been enemies for years now. Even if Potter, like himself, probably thought their rivalry rather childish now, it didn’t change the fact that there was almost a decade of animosity between them. Perhaps Potter’s final battle with the Dark Lord had given him a serious brain injury. Or maybe the Ministry had Potter spying on him; he certainly had enough experience. Draco suspected that he had just made a terrible mistake.

But twenty Galleons a week…it was completely, utterly beneath him, and a year ago he would have hexed anyone who would dare suggest he degrade himself for twenty Galleons. However, things had changed. There was the opportunity to assist his parents financially—perhaps pay part of his winter tuition, and relieve his father’s burden—but there was also, niggling at the back of Draco’s mind, the possibility of using that money to escape…to travel, maybe, or to further his magical training somewhere far away…or perhaps to relocate permanently. He felt a surge of guilt whenever these thoughts crept into his mind, but he could not deny the temptation of a life free from the long shadow his father cast. Of course, there was still his mother to consider, but she had made her choice, hadn’t she?

After dinner, he and Pansy decided to head down to the Quidditch pitch to watch the Slytherin team practice. Their captain, Harper, had them running drills. Draco cast a Warming Charm and they sat huddled together on the stands, watching as the players streaked by.

“I still think it’s unfair that you can’t play,” said Pansy. “If you were the Seeker this year, I think Slytherin would have a real chance. And I’d love to see us win before we leave.”

Draco shrugged. “I’m too busy, anyway.”

“Oh, yes, so busy,” she laughed, “sat out here on a Tuesday evening watching them.”

“I needed a break,” he protested weakly. “My father’s been driving me mad.”

“Why? With what?”

Draco wavered, but he decided that he couldn’t tell Pansy everything. He felt a pang of loneliness as he realized, yet again, that there was nobody he could confide in. He was starting to feel like he had in his sixth year, forced to keep secrets he desperately didn’t want to keep. “Money,” he said. It was partially true. “These legal fees are going to ruin him. And I haven’t heard from my mother since I left, so I have no idea how she’s doing.”

“I’m glad my parents stayed out of it,” she mused. “Though of course, you know…I think they agreed with it all. I still don’t know if…well, anyway.”

“What?”

“It’s hard, isn’t it? You grow up believing one thing, and then all of this happens. And then you don’t know what to think.”

“You still support it, then? Anti-Muggle sentiment?”

“Oh, I don’t know. It’s all so confusing. I’m just glad my parents kept to themselves. This year I’m focusing on my grades and staying out of trouble.”

Draco hummed thoughtfully. “And how’s your internship?”

“It’s alright," she sighed. "Blaise is such a know-it-all. I think he’s somehow become even more arrogant this year. And Slughorn…I don’t know, he doesn’t really seem fond of me. Compared to the others in his Slug Club I suppose I’m a nobody. But I’m learning lots.” She looked over at him. “What about you? Potter still driving you mad?”

“Potter…” Draco exhaled. He was supposed to keep their arrangement secret, but he wasn’t about to be ordered around by Potter of all people. “You know he came looking for me this afternoon? Well, he wants me to teach him nonverbal magic.”

“He’s still on that?” she sneered. “God, I would have thought it completely beneath him to ask any of us for help. You know he thinks he’s a better wizard than anyone at this school—including the teachers.”

“Well, he said he’s having trouble with nonverbal spells and he wants me to teach him. So I agreed.”

“You agreed.”

“Yes.” He refused to meet her eyes. “He’s paying me twenty Galleons an hour.”

“Are you serious? But why? What on earth do you need Potter’s money for?”

He shrugged. “From the way my father’s been talking lately, it sounds like I’m not going to be able to rely on him financially for much longer.”

“Draco,” she protested, “it’s _Potter._ I can guarantee you he’s up to something. Why doesn’t he just ask Granger? You’re telling me there’s no one else at Hogwarts who can teach him? Why you of all people?”

“I may not measure up to His Lordship Harry Potter, but I’m quite proficient in nonverbal magic,” he said drily.

“Oh, come off it, you know what I mean. Have you lost your mind? Can you imagine what your parents would say? All Potter needs to do is stub his toe and pretend it’s your fault, and they’ll have you locked up in Azkaban.”

Draco was quiet as he watched Harper yell at the Slytherin Beaters, who were utterly hopeless. One of them had managed to slam a Bludger into the other, setting off a massive argument as the other players begged them to stop.

“Draco,” Pansy said anxiously. “You’re not listening to me. That’s the face you get when you know you’re making a mistake but you’re going to go ahead and do it anyway.”

“It’ll be fine. I’ll be fine.” He checked his wristwatch and then rose abruptly, startling Pansy. “Come on, I need to get back. I’m meeting him at nine in the entrance hall.”

“ _Tonight_? You’re meeting him tonight? What’s gotten into you? Since when are you so reckless?”

“Pansy,” he said bitterly, making his way down the stands. “I was a Death Eater. This is probably one of the least reckless things I’ve done.”

She bickered with him all the way back to the castle, and Draco quickly regretted telling her about his deal with Potter. She offered to give him twice what Potter was paying—though privately, Draco doubted very much that she had access to those kinds of funds—and, as they pushed through the double doors, she threatened to write to his parents.

“You will not,” he said flatly. “Or I’ll write to yours. I’m sure your mother would just love to hear about what you got up to in France last summer.”

“Fine,” she spat. “But you’re making a horrible mistake, I hope you know. You’re always putting me in these positions where I know you’re doing the wrong thing and there’s nothing I can do about it.” And with that, she stormed off, throwing a furious look at Potter as she passed him.

“Hi,” Potter said as he approached Draco. Looking back over his shoulder at Pansy’s retreating figure, he asked, “Is she okay?”

“Fine. Where are we going?”

“Seventh floor.”

Potter led him through the castle. They came across only a few students, but those who were still roaming the corridors stared at them as they passed by. Draco supposed they must make a funny sight—Potter, saviour of the wizarding world, and himself, former Death Eater. He hadn’t considered what people might say if they met like this every week, and whether word would somehow get back to his father.

“Where are we going, Potter?” he asked sharply.

“Room of Requirement.”

Draco’s heart stopped for a moment. “Is the Room still working?”

“Dunno.” They were hurrying down the seventh-floor corridor; up ahead, Draco could see the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy. He was hit with a wave of nausea. Draco waited by the tapestry as Potter surveyed the blank wall where the room’s door usually appeared. Potter walked by the wall three times, and sure enough, the polished door materialized. He grinned, grasped the brass handle, and entered the room.

“Brilliant,” he called. “Looks like the Room's just fine.”

Draco tried to force his feet to move but it was as though they had a mind of their own. Once again, he had that horrible sensation of being held underwater—he could hardly breathe, and every sound was muffled. Potter was saying something he couldn’t hear. His heart beat wildly in his chest. He could remember it so clearly—the smell of burning flesh, the crackling fire as it gobbled everything up, the tremendous heat on his face.

“Malfoy.” Potter was looking back at him.

“Come on, then,” Draco snarled, pushing past him into the room. He supposed Potter must have asked for an empty space to practice—the room was entirely bare, save for a few torches lining the walls.

“All you alright?” Potter asked, following him in. As he shut the door behind them, Draco jumped.

“I’m fine.”

“I forgot you might be…bothered.”

“Oh yes, I’m sure you forgot,” he said angrily. “I’m sure Crabbe’s death meant absolutely nothing to you.”

Potter frowned. “Of course it did. I didn’t want anyone to die.”

“How very noble of you.”

“Let’s go somewhere else.”

“Where, Potter?” he asked. “This is our only option. And next time, we’ll meet here. I have enough people staring at me during the day without traipsing through the castle with you.”

“Yeah. Sorry about that.”

He let out an angry sigh. “Let’s just get on with it. What do you want to know?”

“I’ve been able to cast Levicorpus nonverbally. Liberacorpus, too. But that’s about it. How did you learn?”

“Practice.”

“Just casting over and over until something happens?”

“Yes, that’s typically how one defines the word ‘practice.’”

Ignoring his barb, Potter asked, “What did you start with? Which spell?”

“How should I remember? It’s been ages.” When Potter said nothing, Draco sighed impatiently. “I suppose simple spells—Lumos…Alohomora…Freezing Charms.”

“Shall we start with Lumos, then?”

Draco shrugged. “As you like.” He took out his wand and held it loosely in his grasp. “To cast a nonverbal spell, I just…relax.” He loosened his shoulders and exhaled. “I try to clear my mind. And then I just say the spell in my head.” The tip of his wand glowed softly.

Potter stared down at his own wand, taking deep breaths.

“You’re too stiff,” said Draco. “Look at your knuckles, how tightly you’re holding your wand. _Relax._ ”

If anything, Potter seemed to tense further.

“Oh, for God’s sake, Potter,” he snapped. “Look. Start with your jaw. Let it loosen. Then your shoulders; let them drop. Now your arm. It’s far too tense. You don’t want to lose all your control, but you need to relax your arm. Keep your wrist flexible. Stop holding your wand like someone’s about to take it from you.” He watched as Potter loosened his grip. “Right. Now your legs. Look how you’re standing. We’re not dueling. And the only thing you should be thinking about is Lumos. So clear your mind. That is, if there’s anything in it to start.”

Potter snorted but kept his eyes on his wand.

“Stop glaring at your wand. Why do you always look so angry? You’re not squaring off against the Dark Lord; you’re performing first-year magic.”

Potter took another deep breath. “Right,” said Draco. “Now just keep repeating the spell to yourself. Visualize your wand lighting up. Don’t get frustrated.” A few moments passed, and Draco thought he could see the tip of Potter’s wand glowing.

“I think something’s happening,” Potter said excitedly.

“Would you like a medal?” he sneered.

Potter frowned. “It’s not getting any brighter.”

“Well, it’s going to take practice. I understand you’re used to everything being handed to you on a silver platter, but this time it looks like you’re going to have to put in effort like the rest of us.”

Draco was annoyed to find that yet again Potter ignored his jab. He was still staring at his wand as though willing it to light up.

“Let’s try something else. A Shield Charm,” Potter said suddenly.

“A Shield Charm?” Draco said. “Really, Potter? Stick to Lumos for now.”

Potter looked up at him. “You can do Shield Charms nonverbally. You make it look easy.”

“Yes, after years of practice.”

“When did you start?”

“I don’t know. Fourth year, maybe? Fifth?”

“Why?”

“Because.”

Potter was staring at him expectantly.

“You weren’t the only one at risk when the Dark Lord returned.” He looked down at the stone floor.

“What do you mean?”

“What do you think? All of a sudden, Death Eaters were taking over the Manor. The Dark Lord was there more often than not. I saw things that…There was just so much…” He shook his head. “I needed to protect myself. And I guess around the end of fifth year I realized that the Dark Lord was going to use me soon. So I needed to be able to…to possibly face Aurors, or…” Draco looked up at Potter and scowled. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. The point is, I spent hours and hours practicing. Every single day. So you’re not going to master a nonverbal Shield Charm in one night, even if you _are_ Harry Potter.”

Potter was staring at Draco’s wand. “You’re not using your old wand,” he said.

Uncomfortable, Draco pocketed his wand. “How observant of you.” He leaned back against the wall, folded his arms, and nodded at Potter. “Go on. And relax, damn you—you’re all tensed up again.”

They carried on for some time, Potter grinning whenever his spell grew stronger, and Draco snapping at him to concentrate. After a while, Potter seemed to get the hang of it. As the silence stretched between them, it occurred to Draco that this entire situation was absurd. Here he was, almost at curfew, in the room where Vincent had died, coaching Harry Potter. Even if he told the other Slytherins about this, he doubted anyone would believe him. Surely Potter had been damaged in some way after his final battle with the Dark Lord. There had been a time, not so long ago, when he would have refused to be in the same room as Draco, let alone taking instructions from him. But something had changed.

“It has to have been at least an hour,” Draco said. Potter’s wand was quite bright, now, casting a white light that illuminated the room. “Try to extinguish your wand nonverbally.”

Potter frowned at his wand; it stayed lit.

“Don’t get frustrated. You get so jumpy when it’s time to try something new. Just ease into it. Let Lumos slip from thoughts, ebb away…Nox comes in, drifts into your consciousness…direct your thoughts to your wand…”

Potter shook his head gently and loosened his shoulders.

“Let the magic go from your mind down your arm…past your wrist…into your hand, through your fingers…down to the tip of your wand…”

And with that, Potter’s wand went dark.

“I’ve done it,” he said, blinking at his wand in surprise.

“So you have. Let’s go, then.”

Draco pushed off the wall. He made to grab the door’s brass handle when Potter said suddenly, “Malfoy. I didn’t mean to bring you here after what happened with Crabbe. It’s not that I didn’t think of it—”

“But you didn’t, did you?” Draco growled. “Forget it, Potter, I wouldn’t expect you to give a damn about one of us.”

“One of you?”

“Don’t play stupid with me. You know exactly what I mean. And I know you think he deserved it.”

“I don’t think he deserved to die in Fiendfyre,” Potter said hotly. “But it was his own spell that did him in. He could have killed all of us.”

“He was brainwashed by his father,” Draco growled. “He wasn’t thinking straight. We were all scared at that point—for our parents, for what would happen to us if we failed—none of us were thinking right. He was stupid. That doesn’t mean he deserved to die.”

“I never _said_ he deserved to die. But to use Fiendfyre...it was so reckless. You can’t compare something like that to Fred dying, or Lavender, or Colin.”

“Can’t I? He was a kid, we were all kids, caught up in something none of us should have been involved in.”

“It’s still not the same,” Potter insisted.

“You are so fucking arrogant,” Draco spat. “So high and mighty. You have no idea what someone like Vincent, or Greg, or me, what we’ve gone through.”

“What you’ve gone through?” Potter gave a hollow laugh. “Teddy Lupin, he’s lost both his parents. They gave their lives fighting against Voldemort. You’re only sad that your side lost.”

“My side? You know nothing about me, Potter. The things I’ve seen—and you’re going to talk about _sides_ —you’re still so childish, so stupid.”

“You and your father served Voldemort until he turned against you,” said Potter.

“So then why do you keep bothering me?” Draco bellowed, suddenly at his wits’ end. Potter flinched back, and that only fueled his anger. “Why won’t you leave me alone? All month you’ve been tailing me, driving me up the wall. I didn’t come back to fuck around with you. So if you think I’m so evil, why won’t you just leave me be?”

“I never said you were evil,” Potter said quietly.

“Just leave me alone! I don’t know what’s gotten into you, why you’re so touched in the head this year, but stop. I mean it.”

Draco ripped the door open when Potter said, “Wait.” He dug around in his pocket and then pulled out a handful of gold coins.

“I don’t want your fucking money, Potter,” he sneered. “Just stay the hell away from me.”

“No.”

“What do you mean, no?”

Potter took a step forward. “Do you ever feel like you’re so overwhelmed, so anxious, that you can’t even breathe? Like the whole world’s stopped and you feel like you’re going to die?”

“ _What_?” Caught off guard, Draco stared at him. Potter regarded him coolly. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“You know what I’m talking about,” he said. “I know you do. I’ve seen you. Sometimes you look the way I feel. I think I’m going mad. And no one else seems to be bothered like this. Do you have nightmares, still?”

“Go see Pomfrey,” Draco advised darkly. “I think you’ve lost the plot.”

“I know you feel the same way. I could tell, that one time in Potions. You looked like you’d seen…like you’d seen everyone who had died come back to life. As I said, you looked the way I feel.”

He wondered if Potter was trying to trick him. Perhaps this was all some elaborate prank to make fun of him or to have him thrown out of Hogwarts somehow. “You’re mental, Potter,” he said weakly.

“I always have this sense of dread. Of nervousness. And I shouldn’t, because Voldemort’s gone now. Everything should be fine. So why isn’t it?”

“Stop.” Putting everything into words like this, it was too much. That same sense of panic that Potter was describing bubbled beneath the surface, but Draco worked hard to ignore it, lest it overwhelm him completely.

Potter ignored him. “I haven’t been able to sleep in months. I keep dreaming of burying Dobby. Of going down to see Voldemort, thinking I was going to die. Of everyone who did die, lined up in the Great Hall.”

“I said stop it, Potter.”

“Sometimes it’s like I’m there. I can smell everything, hear everything, see everything, just like it was. Isn’t it enough that I went through it once? Why do I have to keep reliving it? Do you have that, too? Moments where it’s like you’re back at the battle? And you know you’re not, but you’re still scared?”

“Stop it!” Without thinking, Draco grabbed Potter’s shoulders and pushed him roughly against the stone wall. Towering over him, he hissed, “Stop talking about it. What the hell is wrong with you? Are you trying to drive me mad? Getting a laugh out of this, are you?”

“No.” Potter was glaring up at him. He made to push him off but Draco pinned him back to the wall. “What’s your problem? You _know_ what I’m talking about. You feel like you’re going mad, like no matter what you do you can’t shake off this sense that something horrible is about to happen, like the world’s going to end, like you’re going to die, like something awful is coming, but you just don’t know what, or when, or—”

“Yes, Potter, I know what you’re talking about,” he breathed. “I know exactly what you’re talking about. But what the fuck do you want me to do about it?”

There was a moment of silence as Potter stared up at him, scowling, and then he pushed forward. Draco thought he meant to attack him, and so he reached down to grab his wand, but he froze as Potter crashed his lips against his. He knew, somewhere deep in the back of his mind, that he should throw Potter off, but instead he reached up and cupped Potter’s jaw in his hands; his stubble grazed against his fingers. Everything around them seemed to stop as Draco kissed Potter back. He had snogged plenty of blokes before, but this was different. His mind wasn’t wandering off as it so often did. Instead, he was completely wrapped up in Potter—Potter, of all people—as he held Draco’s hips tightly. Potter suddenly pulled away, looking up at him through long lashes. His lips were swollen.

“You’re…you’re mental,” Draco muttered. “You’re so stupid, Potter. Wait until everyone hears about this.” But he was tracing Potter’s jaw with his thumb and staring down at his lips. They stood like that, immobile, and then Draco couldn’t help himself—he leaned down and captured Potter’s lips in his. Potter responded immediately, giving a low moan and pulling Draco closer. He traced Potter’s bottom lip with his tongue, and as Potter deepened their kiss, he tangled a hand in his messy hair. When they parted again, they were both breathless.

“What…what are you playing at?” Draco whispered.

Potter shook his head but said nothing. He was still gripping Draco’s hips, their chests pressed together. Draco swore he could hear Potter’s heart beating in tandem with his. He felt a burning need to commit everything to memory: Potter’s bright green eyes, his jet-black hair, his parted, pink lips. His white uniform shirt, with the top three buttons undone; his tie, hanging loosely. As he looked down at Potter, it suddenly occurred to him how reckless he was being: alone, with Potter, snogging him. Surely Potter had lost his mind. He would be expelled for this, or worst. And if his parents found out…

He stepped back and shook his head. “I need to go. Stay the hell away from me.”

Potter reached out for him, but Draco pushed him away and rushed out the door. His hands shook all the way back to the dungeons. In the common room, Zabini and Nott were sitting on one of the large sofas. They stared at him as he walked by, avoiding their eyes. Once in his dormitory, he flung himself into bed and pulled the curtains tightly around himself.

 _‘What the fuck was that?’_ he thought wildly. He felt hot, much too hot, and so he undid his tie and unbuttoned his shirt. Laying there, he replayed the past hour over in his mind—teaching Potter, and then arguing with him, and then, somehow, snogging him. How had they gone from fighting to kissing? Was that Potter’s plan all along? But why? He had seen Potter over the years with Chang, and then with the girl Weasley. There were several blokes at Hogwarts who were like Draco—most of whom he had slept with at some point—and, as they lay there together afterwards, they often discussed who they had been with, and who else they had heard was like them. Never had Potter’s name been brought up. And there was nobody he could talk to about this, absolutely nobody. It was too dangerous. If this got out…but Potter was no doubt back in the Gryffindor common room by now, telling everyone what had just happened…they would all find it hilarious, Draco was sure…

And yet Potter hadn’t been laughing. He had looked…intense, serious. Draco rubbed his face, exhausted. And what Potter had been saying before, about the dread, the nightmares, the anxiety...it should have been reassuring that someone else felt the same, but instead Draco was sick to his stomach. He didn’t want to talk about it. He didn’t want to hear about it. He wanted to cast those feelings aside until they went away. He had to go back to normal at some point, didn’t he? It was a cruel form of torture, having to listen to someone else describe the suffocating terror. Draco resolved to avoid Potter from now on. There was, of course, the unfortunate matter of the study groups they were forced to lead together. But in those instances, they were around dozens of other students—surely Potter wouldn’t bother him there. He would go in, do what he needed to do, and get out. He only had to survive until the end of the year.


	8. viii.

Draco tried his best to forget about his encounter with Potter. It was difficult, of course, particularly at night. He would toss and turn for hours, certain that he could still feel Potter’s mouth on his. And yet he also swore it must have been some hallucination or nonsensical dream. There were times when he lay in bed, fingers tracing the green curtains floating near his face, and in the safety of the dark he admitted to himself that he had perhaps eyed Potter once or twice over the years. Certainly, as a Quidditch player, he was quite lithe. And maybe he had noticed how Potter’s messy hair curled around his ears, how his uniform shirt fit around the broadening expanse of his shoulders, how he grinned whenever Weasley said something particularly daft. And of course there were Potter’s vivid green eyes. And his hands: Draco had noticed around sixth year that Potter’s hands were quite large, and certainly stronger than his own. There had been a few times when he had glanced over at Potter gripping his wand. He always held the bloody thing so tightly, so firmly. And maybe once in a while, as any other teenager might, his thoughts had trailed off, thinking of what else Potter might hold just as firmly.

But that was all hormones. He was sure of it. He frequently noticed the same kinds of things about plenty of other blokes, and he had slept with more than half of them. In fact, he had been with wizards _much_ more attractive than Potter. He told himself this, hammering it into his head dully as he stared at his fingers, thinking about how they had traced Potter’s jawline. He could remember Potter’s stubble, rubbing not unpleasantly under his palms. And when they had kissed the second time, Potter had moaned—a low, primal sound, as though he couldn’t help himself, as though he felt in the pit of his stomach what Draco also felt. The only silver lining in all this was that whenever he thought of that strange hour with Potter in the Room of Requirements, the anxiety that usually constricted his chest lifted.

As the week went on, Draco received three more letters from Gringotts asking for his authorization to withdraw various large amounts from his account. Each time, he signed the slip of parchment and sent it off with the bank owl before someone could pry. He knew that Pansy in particular was suspicious, but he said nothing to her. She glared at him whenever Potter was around, which seemed to be all the time lately. Wherever Draco went, there he was: watching him as he left the Great Hall; glancing at him in Potions class; hovering around as he studied in the library with the other eighth-year Slytherins. While he had avoided Potter as much as possible during their Thursday study group, practically jogging out of the Great Hall the moment it ended, Draco grew increasingly uncomfortable with his constant presence. And the others had started to notice.

“Why’s Potter always staring at you, Malfoy?” Nott asked him one evening as they lounged in the common room. Nott and Zabini were playing a game of chess while Draco sat on the sofa with Pansy, Millicent, and Daphne. They were supposed to be revising their Charms homework, but they were too tired. It had been a long week.

“Dunno.” He shrugged. He could feel Pansy’s eyes on him as he said, “Maybe he’s tailing me again this year.”

“It’s weird,” Nott went on. “I don’t think I’ve seen so much of him the entire time we’ve been at Hogwarts. Everywhere we go, there he is.”

“You know how Potter is,” he said. “He’s only happy if he’s playing the Auror. He probably thinks we’re all up to something.”

Zabini was eyeing him oddly. Anxious to change the topic, he said, “So, Hogsmeade tomorrow.”

“Yes,” Daphne said happily. “And I can’t wait to get to the quill shop. I’m almost all out of ink.”

“And I need to go to Honeydukes,” said Millicent. “My cousin’s in Bangalore and I have a list of sweets she’s asked me to send her.”

Seizing his opportunity, Draco said, “I need to stop in at Dervish and Banges for a new pair of gloves.”

“Maybe you’ll actually use this pair, instead of slicing your fingers off in Potions,” Zabini said mildly. Draco made a face at him.

“Well, we all need to be back on time for the party,” Pansy reminded them.

Draco groaned. Some of the Gryffindor eighth years had decided to organize a party in the Room of Requirement. It was supposed to be a secret, and so far, the teachers seemed none the wiser. He had no interest in going, but Pansy had been pestering him all week, and he knew he was going to give in. From the rumours circulating, there was supposed to be alcohol, music, and food nicked from the kitchens.

“Hey,” Pansy said softly. “Has anyone seen Greg? Does he know about the party?”

“I really don’t think he’s in the mood for dancing and drinking in that bloody room,” Draco snapped, irritated.

“I know that.” She frowned at him, offended. “But it still seems rude not to tell him. What if his feelings are hurt?”

Zabini scoffed. “I doubt very much that his feelings will be hurt.”

“Still, someone should tell him,” Daphne said reasonably. “Or at least check on him. He’s always up in your dorm.”

“He won’t talk to any of us,” said Nott. “I try sometimes. He’s never really been talkative to begin with, Goyle, but…it’s like he doesn’t even see you. I’m not sure why he bothered coming back.”

"That’s a bit harsh, isn’t it?” said Millicent. “Vincent was his friend…they were close, ever since first year. So maybe he wanted to come back to where they spent all their time together. Maybe he’s processing everything right now.”

They were silent as they considered her words. Around them, other students chattered away.

“Draco,” Zabini said suddenly. “Your father’s hearing is this Monday, isn’t it?” Blaise looked over at him innocently, but Draco doubted very much that there was anything innocent about his question.

“I don’t know,” he said. “You seem to keep closer tabs on him than I do.”

“Everything will be fine, Draco.” Daphne smiled at him gently.

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Nott sneered. “Your father’s gotten himself into a real mess, Draco. Your mother’s awfully lucky she had Potter to vouch for her, wasn’t she? And I suppose he stuck up for you, too. Funny that. You and Potter always hated each other.”

“He wasn’t about to let Draco rot away in Azkaban,” Pansy cried, indignant. “If it wasn’t for him, Potter would’ve never escaped the Manor. And he’s lucky Draco’s mother was there to check him at the battle. Anyway, can’t we stop talking about it? Let’s just be glad it’s Friday, it’s the weekend, and we can let loose a little bit tomorrow night. Right, Draco?”

He grunted noncommittally.

As the others discussed the upcoming party, Daphne leaned over and touched Draco’s elbow gently. He jumped. “Are you okay, Draco?”

“Fine, thanks,” he said stiffly, pulling back his arm.

"I know it must be difficult. If my parents…I mean, not that I really get along with them…but I know I’d be worried. I think you’re being very brave about it.” When he said nothing, she added, “I know Theo and Blaise like to tease, but, well…try to ignore them if you can.”

“Yeah.”

“And guess what?” she said brightly. “I finished my Arithmancy homework for next week ahead of time. Working with Professor Vector has actually been really helpful.”

“That’s great.”

“Yeah.” She paused for a second, considering him, and then said, “You look tired. Why don’t you go to bed? I’ll distract this lot.”

He eyed her uncertainly, but she winked at him and called, “Oi, Zabini, what’s this I heard about you shagging some Gryffindor girl?”

Predictably, that set them off shouting. Draco slipped away and hurried up to their dorm. In the darkness, he saw that the curtains around Greg’s bed were drawn. Otherwise, the room was empty. Draco changed into a pair of flannel bottoms and got into bed. There was no sound coming from Greg’s bed; usually, he was the first to turn in for the night, and then he was gone by the time Draco and the others woke for breakfast. “Er—Greg?” he asked awkwardly. “There’s a party tomorrow. For the eighth years. We’re all going after Hogsmeade.” Silence. “Right. Goodnight, then.” Feeling foolish, he pulled the sheets up to his chest and lay back, willing himself to sleep.

***

It was dreadful weather for a Hogsmeade outing. The ferocious wind pelted them with rain, and it was so chilly that Draco wore his thickest winter cloak. They scurried from building to building, heads bowed as they braced against the rain. Inside Scrivenshaft’s Quill Shop, they waited as Daphne selected a new inkpot. Draco stood away from the others, pretending to consider a pheasant-feather quill, though in reality he was trying desperately to maintain an air of calm as he panicked. Since they had left Hogwarts, he was constantly looking over his shoulder, terrified that a Ministry agent was following him. The poor weather was a bit of a blessing, as it had driven most students into the warmth of the shops—he hoped Dervish and Banges would be just as crowded. There was also the matter of finding Rochefort: he had no idea what he looked like, or how he was supposed to get the package from him.

As Daphne finally paid for her quill, Pansy said, “I can’t take the cold anymore. Let’s go to the Three Broomsticks to warm up and then head back.”

“I need to go to Dervish and Banges,” said Draco, alarmed.

“Oh, come on,” Nott moaned. “It’s freezing out. Can’t it wait until next time?”

“I need to get new gloves,” he said stubbornly. “My pair have a hole in them.”

“Borrow mine, I’m not even taking Potions this year,” said Nott.

“Go on without me. I’ll only be a minute.”

The rain was coming down in sheets now. The others didn’t want to argue with him, and so they trudged off down the lane to the pub. Zabini glanced back at Draco suspiciously; he waved him off and headed for Dervish and Banges. High Street was almost empty, but Draco was relieved to find that the shop was quite busy. Ancient wooden shelves lined the walls, weighed down with all sorts of magical equipment: Sneakosnopes spinning away in their boxes, Remembralls piled together in a crate, and various moleskin and magically extended pouches hanging from racks. Draco scanned the crowd. As far as he could tell, almost everyone was a student. He wove his way through the shop, feigning interest in a display of Spellotape. He nearly topped the entire thing over when he felt someone suddenly grip his arm.

“Quiet, you,” the man hissed into his ear. He was tall and weedy, dressed in a black cloak with silver fastenings. He wore his long, wiry black hair loose around his shoulders. Draco looked around—nobody seemed to have noticed them.

“Sorry,” he muttered, pulling his arm out of the man’s grasp. “You startled me. Are you Rochefort?”

The man hummed and leaned down to inspect a barrel full of Floo Powder. They were so close that Draco could smell the scent of tobacco on him. Uncertain of what to do, Draco continued to examine the Spellotape. He was about to ask again if the man was Rochefort when he felt a small velvet pouch pressed into his hand.

“Hide it,” the man said.

Draco quickly drew his hand into the folds of his winter cloak and tucked the package into a pocket lining the fur interior. Rochefort reached into the barrel and scooped up some Floo Powder. He let it run through his fingers, sighed, and then moved on down the aisle. As he shuffled away, two Gryffindor boys pushed towards the Floo barrel. He heard one of them say, “My mum asked me to get some for her. Reckon ten Sickles’ worth should be enough?”

Draco scanned the room, heart pounding—as far as he could tell, they had gone undetected. He eyed the stand carrying gloves and made his way over to it, forcing himself into a leisurely, unbothered pace. Though he wanted nothing more than to rush out of the shop and make his way back to Hogwarts, he slowly picked through the dragon-hide gloves, trying his best to appear innocent. Finally, when he felt that enough time had passed, he selected a pair made of Opaleye hide; the scales shone brilliantly in the light. There was a small line at the counter to pay. Draco stood behind Padma Patil and Sue Li, silently urging them to hurry up with their transaction as they chatted with the dumpy witch behind the counter. Finally, they left. As Draco stepped up and placed the gloves on the counter, he watched as the witch’s smile quickly turned to a sharp look of displeasure.

“You’re the Malfoy boy, aren’t you? Son of Lucius Malfoy?” she spat. “Get out of my shop.”

He ignored her and fished out his ten Galleons. He could hardly breathe—the last thing he wanted to do was cause a scene.

“Your money isn’t good here,” she said. “Get out. And don’t touch anything else.”

“Here, I’ve got it,” came a voice from beside him. Shocked, he watched as Potter slid a small pile of Galleons across the counter. He must have just come from outside—his cheeks were ruddy. Draco wondered how he wasn’t frozen, wearing only a jumper.

“Mr. Potter,” the woman gasped. Her face broke into a huge grin. “Would you look at that: Harry Potter, in _my_ shop. What can I get for you, sir?”

“Just the gloves.” Potter nodded.

“Of course, of course, let me find something nice to wrap them in.” She crouched down, out of sight, and dug around behind the counter.

“I’m fine, Potter,” Draco said stiffly.

“I owe you, remember? Still ten Galleons left to go—let me buy you a drink after.”

“What? No. I need to get back to the castle. Where’s your usual entourage, anyway?”

Potter laughed. “Hermione and Ron had some ‘homework’ to catch up on.”

“Great. An image I’ll never be able to Scourgify my mind of.”

“Go on. One drink.” Potter had lowered his voice and leaned closer; their hands were nearly touching on the counter.

“There we are,” the witch said suddenly, emerging with a sheet of wrapping paper. “This will keep them nice and dry until you’re back at Hogwarts. Opaleye, is it? A very good choice. Sturdy, but flexible.” She gave Draco a winning smile. He frowned back. Unbothered, she wrapped up his purchase and passed it to him. Taking the gloves, he tucked them under his cloak, next to the package Rochefort had given him.

Potter led him out of the shop and into the cold. The rain had subsided, though it was still overcast.

“I need to get back,” said Draco. Uneasy, he added, “Thanks for the gloves.”

“Are you going to the party tonight?” Potter was staring at him with those bright green eyes, hands in his jean pockets.

“Maybe. Dunno.” Unsure of what else to say, pinned by Potter’s intense stare, he mumbled, “Well, see you.” And with that he headed back up High Street, feeling the other man’s eyes burning a hole into his back.


	9. ix.

By the time Draco was back in the Slytherin common room, he remembered that he had promised to meet up with the others at the pub. Well, no matter. He doubted they would notice his absence, anyway. Their dorm was empty. Wondering vaguely where Greg might have gone, he kneeled down in front of the trunk at the foot of his bed. It was filled with his textbooks, his collapsible cauldron, and his broomstick. Making space between _Advanced Potion Making_ and _Ancient Runes Made Easy_ , he carefully drew the velvet pouch from under his cloak. The little crimson sack was tied with black drawstrings. Though he knew he shouldn’t, Draco was sorely tempted to open it. He felt along the pouch, trying to make out its contents, and he swore there was some kind of bottle inside. He shook it—no sound at all. Vexed, he tucked the package under his textbooks, hoping whatever it contained wasn’t too fragile. He closed his trunk and tapped it once with his wand, locking it.

So that was it. He had done what his father had asked. For all Draco knew, he had just stored an illicit, Dark artifact in his trunk. He would put nothing past his father. Most likely he intended to sell it, or to barter it in some way, but…to what ends? To pay his lawyer fees? To bribe someone on the Wizengamot? Perhaps, Draco thought hopefully, whatever the package held belonged to someone else, and his father could use it as blackmail or as evidence in exchange for his own freedom. It was possible, wasn’t it?

He leapt up as the door to their dorm swung open. There stood Greg, as gaunt as ever.

“What are you doing here?” Greg asked slowly.

“I have an essay to finish,” he said, the lie coming to him easily. “What about you? Why aren’t you at Hogsmeade?”

Greg shrugged and then turned to leave.

“No—wait,” Draco called. “You don’t have to leave. I’m headed to the common room.”

Greg watched as he stood and brushed himself off. “Er, did you want to join?” he asked. Greg shook his head and stood aside for Draco to pass.

“Right, then. See you.” He sidled past him and took the stairs down to the common room two at a time. He had never been particularly close to Greg, but he felt an odd sort of kinship with him: they had survived the Fiendfyre, and they had witnessed Vincent’s death. He wasn’t sure if the three of them had been friends, exactly, but they had struggled through the Dark Lord’s return together, hadn’t they? Filled with an odd sort of grief, Draco settled into an armchair by the fire and flipped through his textbook, not really seeing the words. An hour passed when suddenly the common room door burst open, and a large group of fourth years came tumbling in. Their cheeks were red from the cold, and they were in high spirits, clutching bags from Honeydukes and Zonko’s. Before long, other students started streaming in, laughing, comparing sweets they had bought, and swapping tales of having seen a hag in the Three Broomsticks. Eventually, the other eighth years swept into the common room. While everyone else went upstairs to change, Pansy spotted Draco and pouted at him.

“Where have you been?” she demanded. “We were waiting for you!”

“Homework,” he said, holding up his textbook as proof.

Pansy must have forgiven him, for she came and perched next to him on the armrest. She smelled faintly of firewhisky. “You missed a good time,” she said. “We were talking about our first few years at Hogwarts—remember when Crabbe and Goyle got stuck in the trick step on the second-floor staircase? And Filch had to come get them out?”

Draco snorted. “It wasn’t the only time. And it was absolute chaos—nobody could get by them.”

“And you left them there and went to Charms,” she said, laughing.

“I had an essay to turn in,” he defended himself. “And anyway, it was their fault. How many times had I told them to jump that step?”

"And remember when you told Millicent that Marcus Flint had a crush on her? And she was mooning over him for weeks?”

“God, I’d forgotten about that. She went up to him and asked him to Madam Puddifoot’s. Right after a Quidditch match. _Everyone_ heard.”

“His face!” she sniggered. “Like he’d seen a slug or something. Poor Millicent. How long did it take her to forgive you for that?”

"Months? She punched me so hard I couldn’t breathe properly after. Luckily, I don’t think her memory’s the best.”

“We were just little kids then, weren’t we?” she mused. “Remember Potter was always following you around, thinking you were up to something? And you him.”

"I don’t follow people around,” he said, affronted. “It was Potter driving me mad all the time, spying on me wherever I went.” Unbidden, the memory of kissing Potter, and Potter’s low moan, flashed before him. He jumped up from the armchair, unsettling Pansy, who swatted him.

“Come on, go get ready. The bloody party is starting soon, isn’t it? I need to go put my book away.”

“You remembered!” she said happily. “I knew you would come. We’re all leaving together at ten.”

He checked his watch; it was quarter to.

“And how are we supposed to avoid the teachers?” he asked. “It’s after curfew.”

“My God, have you always been such a worry-wart?” She laughed. “We’re of age now. What are they going to do? Send us back to our beds? Anyway, we’ll be careful.”

Relenting, Draco went up to the dorm. Zabini was lounging on his bed, already dressed, while Nott pulled on a pair of jeans. They were discussing the upcoming Quidditch match.

“Reckon Slytherin has a shot, Draco?” Nott asked.

“Dunno,” he said. He went to go put his textbook in his trunk, but froze, remembering the package hidden within. He was being ridiculous: the other two were hardly paying attention to him, and the velvet pouch was hidden well enough, but he didn’t dare take the risk. He tossed his book onto his bedside table instead.

“Of course, Gryffindor’s got a decent team this year. Weasley’s quite good,” Nott admitted grudgingly. “And she’s found herself some good Chasers, I heard.”

“Not a fan of Harper’s?” Blaise asked.

“Oh, he’s alright. Always getting fouls, though. Ravenclaw’s got a good Captain this year. Bradley, isn’t it? He’s always had a good build for a Chaser.”

“Draco, you would know everything about Bradley’s build, wouldn’t you?” Zabini sneered.

“Shut up,” Draco snapped. He was so on edge, glancing over at his trunk every few seconds, that he couldn’t think of anything cleverer to say. Although it did now occur to him that the Ravenclaw who had cornered him at the start of term had been Bradley.

Nott and Zabini sniggered. “He’s had half the blokes in the castle,” said Nott. “You’ve never fancied a turn, Blaise?”

Zabini was eyeing Draco the way a cat stares down its prey. “Oh, I don’t know. I guess we’ve never gotten around to it. Have we, Draco?”

“Well, you’d better make sure I’m not here when it happens,” Nott taunted them. “Let’s get going, then, or the girls will have our heads.”

As they made to leave, Draco looked over at Greg’s bed. The curtains were drawn.

They made their way to the seventh floor together. The corridors were suspiciously empty—though Draco thought that might have something to do with the stench of Dungbombs they encountered in the entrance hall. Something shifted in Draco when he saw the door to the Room of Requirement materialize; whether that was because of the visions of Vincent being swept up in Fiendfyre that continued to afflict him, or the weird feeling he got in his stomach whenever he thought of kissing Potter, he couldn’t say. The room was packed with eighth-year students, and it was quite different from the bare space he and Potter had practiced in. Though it was still dark, illuminated only by the soft glow of enchanted candles floating above them, there were cushions and armchairs strewn along the floor. To their left was a trestle table, sagging under the weight of pastries and countless varieties of alcohol. A wireless was playing loudly from somewhere. Most people were dancing, though some milled around, bottle in hand, conversing in loose groups. The room was already hot; Draco undid the first two buttons of his shirt.

“Looks like every eighth year is here,” Daphne said excitedly. “Oh, there’s Sue, I have to go say hello.” And with that she sauntered off, dragging Millicent with her.

“Come on, Draco, let’s dance,” said Pansy, tugging at his arm.

“I’m much too sober for that,” he said. “I need a drink.”

Draco cracked opened a firewhisky and took a long swig. Pansy, who he suspected had already had quite a bit to drink at Hogsmeade, was pouring herself a glass of vodka. Looking out over the crowd of students, Draco wondered what Greg was doing alone in their dormitory. He felt a familiar pang of guilt. He couldn’t decide if Greg was his responsibility or not. For some reason, he hadn’t expected Vincent’s death to have weighed on Greg so heavily. Though perhaps it wasn’t just that…maybe it was the culmination of everything, the weight of so many lives wasted that hung heavily on all of their shoulders.

He was surprised to find his firewhisky empty. Usually he wasn’t much of a drinker. But the reassuring warmth that filled his chest was soothing, and he reached for another bottle.

“Pace yourself,” Pansy teased. She wove her arm around his. “So, who have you set your eyes on tonight?”

“Nobody in this crowd, that’s for sure.”

She laughed. “Oh, come off it. Macmillan looks alright with his new haircut, doesn’t he?”

“That prat? God, he’s arrogant.”

“ _You’re_ going to talk about arrogance?” She winked at him. “Really, Draco. There has to be someone here who can hold your interest.”

“I can’t wait to get out of here,” Draco said suddenly. “Move on from Hogwarts—travel, get out of Europe for a bit, meet some new people. I’m so sick of this year. Same people, same bloody house system. Don’t you get tired of it?”

“Oh, I guess. But it isn’t all bad. You’re just cranky lately. I really think you need a good shag to get everything out of your system.”

He stared down at her, scandalized.

"Since when are you such a prude?” She jabbed his side with her elbow.

“I am not,” he muttered. “You’ve just always got your mind in the gutter.”

She snickered. “Have not. Anyway, let’s dance. Come on.”

“You go ahead,” Draco said, disentangling his arm from hers. “I’ll come in a bit.”

She gave him an exasperated sigh but headed off into the crowd. Draco leaned against the wall, nursing his drink. He usually held his alcohol quite well, but the heat, the noise, and the dark had him feeling almost dizzy. He gave a start as he spotted Daphne rushing towards him, beaming. “Oh, come on, Draco, back me up here. Isn’t it true that we saw an Acromantula by the Forbidden Forest once?” She was followed by Padma Patil, Hannah Abbott, and Sue Li, all of whom seemed quite drunk.

“Er—yeah,” he said, frowning at her.

“Remember? In fifth year? I _know_ that’s what we saw. And remember I went and asked Hagrid, and he said—”

“But what would an Acromantula be doing near Hogwarts?” Patil laughed. “You’re drunk. You’re completely wasted!”

“Am not!” Daphne protested in mock fury. “And there was this one time when we were out late—Slytherin had Quidditch practice, and there were a bunch of us there watching—and I swear we heard a dragon. Don’t you remember, Draco?”

“Vaguely,” he muttered, sipping his drink.

“Sue swears she’s seen a Mountain Troll on the grounds,” said Hannah Abbott. “But a dragon? I don’t know. Wouldn’t you be able to see a dragon? They’re not exactly easy to hide, are they?”

Looking for an escape, Draco scanned the crowd. He couldn’t see Pansy. Suddenly, he locked eyes with Potter, who was staring at him from across the room. He was, as always, surrounded by his entourage. Draco looked away quickly, focusing on Patil, who had turned to him.

“Malfoy,” she said. “Your father’s next hearing is this Monday, isn’t it? It’s been in all the papers.”

“Oh, let’s talk about something else,” Daphne said worriedly.

Ignoring her, Patil pressed on: “Are you going to go support him?”

“I wouldn’t, if it was my father,” Abbott declared. She was leaning on Li for support. “I wouldn’t have anything to do with my family if they were— _that._ ” Rounding on Draco, she said fiercely, “I’m sure you know what happened to my mother, of course.”

Draco felt trapped—was he supposed to apologize? Defend himself? All at once he felt furious with Daphne, with all of them, for putting him in this position. He drained his bottle, slammed it down on the table, and stormed out of the room. He thought he heard Daphne calling him, but he ignored her. He needed to get back to his dorm and away from these people, from their reproachful eyes, from their whispers. He made it halfway down the corridor when he felt someone tugging his arm. He didn’t even need to look back to know that it was Potter.

“Malfoy,” Potter said. “Where are you going?”

“Haven’t I told you to leave me alone, Potter?” he snarled. He whirled around, hand on his wand.

“Why are you leaving? Let’s have a drink.”

Draco stared at him, feeling as though he had been Stunned. “What the hell is wrong with you? You and I don’t go around having drinks together. I don’t know what game you’re playing, if you’re trying to get me expelled, or thrown into Azkaban—or if this is some way to get to my father—”

“It’s none of that.”

"Then what is it?”

“I just wanted to talk to you, that’s all.”

“Go talk to your friends.” Draco glared at him and then made to walk away, but Potter had grabbed his arm again.

"We’re meeting this Tuesday, don’t forget,” Potter said.

“No, we’re not. Find someone else to teach you. And stay away from me.”

Potter hadn’t let go of his arm and, for some reason, Draco hadn’t pushed him away. He felt flushed from the firewhisky. Looking over at Potter, his lips parted, his hair tousled, Draco was mortified as he remembered what they had gotten up to in the Room of Requirement. He had almost come to believe it had been a dream, but the feeling of Potter’s hand around his wrist made what had happened between them seem vividly real.

“Let me go,” he said weakly, not moving at all. Potter shook his head. “Someone could see us.”

But Potter was crowding him against the wall, and to Draco’s horror, he wasn’t shoving him off—rather, he had already tangled one hand into Potter’s hair, and before he knew what was happening, they were kissing. Again. Only this time, there was something desperate about the way they clung to each other: Potter had him pressed against the wall and was kissing him almost angrily. Draco twisted his hand deeper into Potter’s hair, and his stomach flipped when he moaned. He hadn’t realized how much he had missed that sound: he had never expected Potter, of all people, to making such wanton noises. Draco was further surprised when Potter bit his bottom lip, nearly drawing blood. Potter suddenly moved his hands across Draco’s shoulders, and then trailed them down his chest, sliding towards his stomach.

Alarmed, Draco broke away, staring at Potter breathlessly. Potter was toying with the buttons on Draco’s shirt and looking up at him. His expression was impossible to decipher: not angry, not upset, but strangely serious, his jaw set.

“We can’t keep doing this,” Draco murmured. When Potter said nothing, he repeated, “Someone could see us.”

“Let’s go somewhere else, then,” said Potter. “My dorm will be empty.”

For a moment, it was sorely tempting: Potter was _right there,_ and he was so warm, so firm under Draco’s hands. He thought Potter might be able to help him forget all of the worries perpetually brewing in his head, the dread that haunted him like a shadow whenever he woke up, the flashbacks he couldn’t seem to shake. But then reality hit him and he shook his head.

“No. Stop. You know this is wrong.”

“S’not.” Potter was starting to trail feather-light kisses down his neck, and Draco knew he had to get out of there or he would lose his resolve completely.

“Yes. It is.” He pushed Potter away, gently but firmly, and rearranged his shirt. “Please. I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but…stop. Please. This isn’t funny.”

“I’m not laughing.” Again, that strangely solemn look.

“Go on back to the party. Bye.” With that he slipped out of Potter’s grasp, walking quickly down the corridor before he could change his mind. He forced himself not to stop until he was back in the Slytherin common room. There, his legs buckled beneath him. He sunk into a sofa, head in his hands, and tried to focus on his breathing as he did during his episodes. He was going to lose his mind, if he hadn’t already. Wildly, he thought of leaving Hogwarts, of giving up on his N.E.W.T.s. There were plenty of positions where O.W.L.s were perfectly acceptable. And it wasn’t just Potter—it was everything: the fear, the anger, the animosity, the hatred from students and teachers; the castle itself, a constant reminder of everything he had been through, everything he had done; and the other Slytherins, who seemed intent on driving him mad. He was of no use to his parents here. His mother. Perhaps he had made a horrible mistake, coming back. Surely, she needed him at home. His father’s next hearing was in two days, and he hadn’t even written her. But what was there to say? What could he do from so far away?

This whole thing with Potter…it was too much. He had never before been so confused by himself. Was it Potter he wanted, or just anyone? Maybe Pansy was right. Maybe he needed someone, anyone, who could distract him long enough to ease the terror always hovering at the edges of his consciousness, ready to overwhelm him. He rubbed his face, suddenly exhausted. He had told himself that eighth year was supposed to be simple: study, sit his N.E.W.T.s, keep out of trouble, and move on. But nothing in his life was ever simple, was it?


	10. x.

Monday passed by in a blur. He knew, vaguely, that his father’s hearing had started early that morning, but he couldn’t bring himself to wonder what was happening—whether his mother was there, what sort of arguments the lawyers might be making, and how the Wizengamot would respond. Tuesday morning, the _Prophet_ printed a summary of the six-hour hearing. Draco didn’t need to read it—sitting at the end of the Slytherin table next to Pansy, he was able to gather the basics from the flurry of conversation around him.

“…life in Azkaban, he’s looking at, and it’s the least he deserves…”

“…they’ve found some more evidence of Muggle torture…look, in Yorkshire…”

“…plenty of other Death Eaters have sold him out, he doesn’t have a chance…”

“…next hearing is November eighteenth…maybe then they’ll come to a verdict…”

Draco set down his coffee, hardly touched, and rose from the bench. Pansy looked up at him, a pained expression on her face, but before she could say anything he strode out of the Great Hall. He was headed out to the grounds when Proudfoot intercepted him, jogging down the staircase.

"Mr. Malfoy,” he called. “Where you going?”

“Outside to study, sir,” he said defensively. “I have a free period.”

“Oh, good. Can you come to my office?”

Draco frowned. What had he done now?

“It’ll only be a moment,” said Proudfoot. “Come.”

Suspecting that he had no other choice, Draco followed Proudfoot to his office on the second floor. The room had seen many occupants over the years; Proudfoot had decorated it quite plainly, with two well-worn armchairs, an enormous walnut bookcase, and a wardrobe. The older man sunk into one of the armchairs and motioned for Draco sit across from him. His stomach was in knots. He started to wonder whether Proudfoot had somehow found out about his encounters with Potter. Surely he couldn’t be in trouble for that, could he? As far as he could tell, Potter was quite the willing participant—in fact, he was usually the instigator. But perhaps that had been Potter’s plan: to pretend Draco had molested him and have him expelled. He tried to study Proudfoot’s face, but his expression was neutral.

“How are you, Mr. Malfoy?”

“I’m fine, sir,” he said. He looked around the room, for some reason incapable of meeting Proudfoot’s eyes.

At last, Proudfoot asked, “And how are your classes?”

"Good, sir. I’m not as far back as I thought I would be, so…it’s been going well.”

“That’s good to hear. And how about the lessons you’re teaching? With Mr. Potter?”

His heart leapt in his chest at the sound of Potter’s name—did Proudfoot know? Was he in trouble? “They’re going well, I think.”

“Oh, I think they’re going very well,” Proudfoot said, the corners of his lips twitching. Draco broke out into a cold sweat— _he knew._ “I think you underestimate yourself, Mr. Malfoy. The students have shown a lot of progress over the last month. I think your study sessions must have played at least some role. Don’t you think?”

“Er—yes?”

“You make a very good teacher. You’re firm but fair. You’ve impressed me so far. To be teaching students nonverbal magic…you’ve done very well.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Now.” Proudfoot shifted in his seat. “I wanted to talk to you about your plans after Hogwarts.” Draco was barely able to mask his relief. So this wasn’t about Potter after all. “I know you would usually discuss this sort of thing with your Head of House, but, well…Professor Slughorn told me that your last meeting with him was…tense. And I suppose I’ve taken a bit of an interest in you. You remind me of myself, sometimes.”

"Sir?”

“You have this nervous, tense energy around you. I think it needs an outlet. You need something to work towards, Mr. Malfoy. Have you given any more thought to your plans once you’ve finished at Hogwarts?”

“I…” He trailed off and looked out the window. It was a bright, sunny day; he watched as a flock of birds soared across the sky. “I think I’ll travel for a bit. Get out of Britain…get out of Europe.”

“Travel?” Proudfoot asked sharply. Draco looked back at him, surprised. He hadn’t expected Proudfoot to react so harshly. “And what’s given you that idea?”

“I don’t know, sir. I suppose the Malfoy name isn’t very respectable here anymore, is it? So I thought…if I were to go away for a while, where I’m not really known…I could start over, maybe.”

Proudfoot relaxed and gave him a small smile. “Wizards abroad have newspapers, too, Mr. Malfoy.”

“I know that,” he snapped. Remembering himself, he said softly, “I know. But anywhere has to be better than here. I had always thought I would do post-graduate studies. Rent a flat somewhere. My parents and I used to travel during the summer…we were invited to so many places, I’ve been just about…well, it doesn’t matter anymore. But my plan had always been to travel some more, once I left Hogwarts.”

“Interesting. And you mentioned post-graduate studies. In what, do you think?”

“I don’t really know anymore. It seems just about everything is closed off to me.”

Proudfoot raised his eyebrows. “I don’t know about that. You’re sitting seven N.E.W.T.s this year, aren’t you? And as I said, you show a lot of promise.”

Draco suddenly felt an irrational anger overtake him. “That doesn’t matter, though, does it, Professor?” he asked, voice heavy with irony. “Who’s going to hire the son of Lucius Malfoy?”

“So you’re just going to give up?”

“And why shouldn’t I?” he asked fiercely. He jumped up and strode over to the window, fists clenched. “You don’t know how often I’ve thought of…of just leaving, of not even finishing my N.E.W.T.s…what a waste of time this is, studying for grades I’ll never use. I don’t belong here anymore.”

“Where do you belong, then?” Proudfoot asked.

“I have no idea. Away from here. Somewhere far away, where nobody knows who I am. Where I’m something other than Lucius Malfoy’s son.” He gave a cold, bitter laugh. “God, what an idiot he is. And so am I, for following him all these years.”

“You were a child. Children don’t often make their own choices.”

“I had a choice.” He turned to Proudfoot, looking down at him, and for some reason he hated the man’s sympathetic face. “We all had a choice. And I made mine. And now I need to make another one. The right one, maybe, this time.”

“Stay another month,” Proudfoot said reasonably. “You’re being rash. I would hate to see all that potential wasted.”

“What does it matter? And with all due respect, why do you care, sir? You were an Auror. I remember you from the Ministry. Father used to mention you. So why does an Auror care what happens to a Death Eater?”

He expected Proudfoot to wince at the words, or to shout at him for his insolence, but instead he chuckled. “I wish you would stop being so dramatic, Mr. Malfoy. I’m old enough now, and I’ve been through enough, to avoid the pitfall of seeing the world in black and white. I worked as an Auror for many years, yes. And you’d be surprised at some of the choices _I’ve_ made.”

Draco didn’t know what to make of that. He shoved his hands into his pockets, feeling childish, and asked, “May I go, sir? I have an essay to finish.”

“As you like. But I’m not going to let you off the hook so easily, you know. As I say, you have potential. You just need an outlet for all that anger. I’m asking you to stay at Hogwarts. Give yourself a chance.”

“I’ll think about it, sir,” he said sullenly.

“Good. Go on, then.”

Dismissed, Draco swept out of Proudfoot’s office and made his way to the entrance hall. That familiar feeling of panic was settling in. As he pushed his way out the double doors, the sting of cold air on his face was comforting. His plan had been to settle into his usual spot by the lake and study. But his conversation with Proudfoot had rattled him, and for the first time since returning to Hogwarts, he desperately wanted to fly. He couldn’t be bothered going back to his dorm for his broom—didn’t want to run into someone he knew, didn’t want to pretend to listen to their small talk—and so Draco traipsed down to the broomshed. Rifling through the school brooms, he selected an old Comet. He headed out to the pitch, mounted the broom, and pushed off—and instantly, his mind cleared. The Comet wasn’t very fast and veered to the right, but Draco leaned forward, urging it on as he looped the pitch. He wondered, briefly, if he would be in trouble should any teachers spot him—free periods were meant for studying, after all. But he decided he didn’t care. He had forgotten the freedom he felt while flying. Hovering mid-air, he surveyed the grounds, watching as Hagrid trudged through the vegetable patch.

As he circled the pitch again, drifting lazily along the corners, he reflected on what Proudfoot had said. Regardless of the advantages seven N.E.W.T.s might provide him, there was still the undeniable fact that he felt out of place at Hogwarts. In the past, Hogwarts had been a second home to him; and, once the Dark Lord had started using the Manor as his headquarters, the castle had been a refuge. Coming into his eighth year, he had expected to be able to escape his troubles once again by returning to Hogwarts. Instead, they had followed him here. His episodes had not stopped—if anything, they were worse. And then there was Potter. Once again, as he always did, Potter had muddled everything. There were still times when Draco swore he must have dreamt everything up. It was too implausible, too surreal, to possibly be true. Never mind that his stomach clenched and his heart froze whenever he saw Potter; surely his mind was inventing all kinds of ridiculous hallucinations, perhaps to distract him from his anxiety.

But then he would catch Potter staring at him, that intense, serious stare, and he was forced to accept that it _had_ happened, that he _had_ kissed Potter. Sometimes, when Draco was reading, the words blurred together and he wondered what would have happened if he had agreed to go back to Potter’s dorm the night of the party. In Transfiguration yesterday, he had missed most of Delacour’s lecture on trans-species transformation as he gazed at a spot on the wall, lost in thought, remembering the feeling of Potter’s hands on him. It was a dangerous game he was playing. Potter could ruin him—or at least, ruin whatever credibility he had left. And that was another reason to leave Hogwarts: to get away from Potter. Otherwise, he seemed impossible to escape. Draco noticed him wherever he went. It was maddening.

His hands nearly numb from the cold, Draco angled the tip of the broom downwards and landed gracefully. He could have cast a Warming Charm, but the cold was bracing. After storing the Comet back into the broomshed, he checked his wristwatch, and saw that it was nearly time for lunch. He was surprised to find that he had a bit of an appetite—a rare thing these days. He set off for the castle, wondering if he would have time before Charms to return a book to the library, when suddenly he saw Callidus swooping down towards him. He was about to call out to remind him that he didn’t have his leather gauntlet but, well-trained as always, Callidus soared low and let the parchment drop from his talons. He wheeled around and then set off for the West Tower.

Draco turned the scroll over in his hands. For a moment, he thought of chucking it—perhaps into the Great Lake—but, giving in to his sense of duty, he unravelled it. There was a single line:

_Usual place, three in the morning, Friday._

He knew exactly what it meant: his father wanted to speak by Floo in the Slytherin Common Room. He had received even more cryptic messages in the past. Draco took out his wand and tapped the note gently; it caught fire. Holding the edge so as not to burn himself, it suddenly occurred to him that according to his father, the Manor’s mail was being monitored. So why was he communicating about their meetings by post? He had also mentioned that their Floo was being watched…so how was he getting around the Ministry? It wouldn’t surprise him if his father was once again putting him in danger’s way, but to risk it while his trial was ongoing…would he be so stupid? Sometimes, Draco mused as he traipsed up the path leading to the castle, he felt as though he didn’t know his father at all anymore. How strange, to know someone for eighteen years, and yet not understand the first thing about them.


	11. xi.

Draco was so preoccupied that he hardly paid attention in Ancient Runes. They were supposed to be decoding a complicated series of symbols. He was paired with Daphne, who hummed to herself as she flipped through the pages of _Advanced Rune Translation._

“This here…is that a hydra?” She leaned closer to the text, squinting. “Draco, look at this one. What is that?”

“Huh?” He had been staring out the window.

“Here.” Daphne tapped the page impatiently. “I can’t tell—it’s a hydra, it must be. Which means…” She turned to her textbook. “God, why can’t I remember any of this? Babbling says we’re supposed to have this section memorized by now.”

Draco gave a noncommittal grunt, pulling his own textbook closer.

“You’re very quiet today,” she said lightly. “Anything on your mind?”

“I’m fine.”

“I’ve heard _that_ from you plenty of times. And you’re always lying. I wish you’d just talk to me.”

“It’s a hydra,” Draco said, examining the rune closely. “And it means ‘nine.’”

“Right.” Under the rune Daphne wrote out ‘nine’ in a small, cramped script. “Well, we’re getting there.”

They worked in silence for a few minutes, until Daphne grumbled, “They really could have made these a bit more distinct. Never mind memorizing the bloody things; I spend half my time trying to sort out what it is I’m looking at.”

Draco scoffed. “Perhaps you need your eyes checked.”

“I wish it was my eyes,” she said glumly, slumping back in her seat. “I’m just hopeless at Runes. Always have been.”

“Drop the class, then.”

“No way. Mum and I had a huge row over the summer about Runes. I can’t go through that again." She took a deep breath. "And, er…how are your parents, then?”

“Fine,” he said tersely.

“Draco…have you ever had anyone to talk to?”

He looked up at her, surprised. “Of course I have. And I don’t know why you’re so concerned. It’s my father’s trial, not mine.”

“He’s still your father.”

“That’s wrong,” said Draco, pointing at one of the runes Daphne had labeled. “That one there means ‘sun.’”

“Right. Sorry. And I think I got this one wrong—it should be ‘tree’, right?”

“Yeah.”

“But anyway, he’s your father, Draco. And I know what he did at the battle. I heard he was looking everywhere for you…him and your mum…people said your parents weren’t fighting at all…they were asking around for you...”

Draco pressed his hands against the table to stop them from shaking. That horrible, sickening feeling had settled into his stomach. All at once his mind was whirring with memories of people screaming around him, deafening _bangs_ echoing throughout the castle, and then the Room of Requirement…feeling certain he was going to die in the unimaginable heat, and then wondering if perhaps it wouldn’t be so horrible, dying…

“Draco?” Daphne tapped his hand with her quill. “Are you okay? I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“I’m not upset,” he mumbled. “Just trying to remember what that last rune means.”

“Well…I still wish you would talk to me. Us Slytherins have to stick together, right?” She smiled at him. “You’re so quiet this year. You hardly eat at meals. You barely ever join us in the common room. You can tell me what’s going on, you know.”

“Yeah.” Extremely uncomfortable, he shifted in his seat, eyes glued to his textbook. He still couldn’t push the image of his mother’s terrified face out of his mind. He remembered clearly how she had looked at him, begging him to join her, to escape with her. Mercifully, at that moment Babbling announced the end of class and reminded them to complete their assignment for next week.

“At least no essay,” Daphne said brightly. “And I heard there’s steak and kidney pie for dinner tonight.”

Draco was quiet at dinner, trying to ignore the worries circling in his mind. He hadn’t heard from his mother in over a month, and he hadn’t liked the look of her the day he left for Hogwarts: haggard, pale, and lifeless. He desperately hoped that she hadn’t been reading the papers. Everyone seemed to have forgotten the vital role she had played in saving Potter. It pained him to reflect on what Daphne had said. It was true: she had ripped through the castle with his father, calling his name, asking if anyone had seen him. And he had sauntered off to the bloody Room of Requirement to try to play the hero, to get his family back into the Dark Lord’s good graces. He had been terrified, acting entirely on the frantic instinct to save his parents and himself. Sometimes, he wondered how far he would have gone…what he would have done.

“I hope I didn’t upset you in class, Draco,” Daphne muttered. “Please eat something. I feel awful.”

“I ate a lot at lunch,” he lied. “Anyway, I’ve got a Potions essay to finish for tomorrow. See you.”

He rushed out of the Great Hall, noting that Potter and his friends weren’t at the Gryffindor table. He hated himself for noticing these things, but he almost couldn’t help it. He and Potter had always kept an eye on each other, hadn’t they? Somehow, in their odd way, they had kept each other in check. Their rivalry…he wasn’t even sure anymore when it had all started. Potter had rejected his offer of friendship at the start of their first year, but surely their hatred of each other stretched back even further…to before they were even born, perhaps…Slytherin and Gryffindor, on opposing sides of a gaping divide. In some ways, Draco defined himself by what he was not—he was not a Gryffindor, he was not Potter, and he had never been on the right side. Without all of that, he had no idea where he stood.

***

Sitting in the common room, Draco had abandoned his Potions book completely, and instead was staring at his wristwatch as it ticked away. Ten minutes until nine. He was restless: one moment he sat cross-legged, book in his lap, the next he was sprawled out on the couch, head resting on a pillow, until he moved again and sat up straight, feet planted on the ground. Distracted, he kept looking around the room. In a far corner, a group of second years were playing Exploding Snap. The upper-year students kept closer to the fireplace. Most of them were studying, though a few, including some fifth years Draco didn’t know, were speaking in hushed tones. The other eighth-year Slytherins had gone to the library; Draco was surprised they weren’t back yet. More than likely they had stopped by the kitchens, or else had found somewhere to drink the firewhisky Nott had brought back from Hogsmeade.

Five to nine. Sitting in the relative silence of the common room, he swore he could hear his mother’s voice calling for him. Her cries mingled with those of the people he had seen tortured, maimed, and killed. He stood abruptly, shoved his textbook into his satchel, and then strode out of the common room before he could change his mind. He half hoped he would run into his friends and be forced to change his plans, but he traipsed through the castle undisturbed. As he made his way down the length of the seventh-floor corridor, he wasn’t surprised to see the polished door set into the wall. Grasping the handle, he took a deep breath, and then pushed his way in. The room was different, this time: while still mostly bare, it now held a large, worn couch, on which Potter was sat.

Potter looked up at him—Draco couldn’t tell whether he was surprised or not. Dressed in a navy jumper and a pair of jeans, he looked oddly at ease, reading from a book in his lap. “Malfoy,” he said evenly.

“Potter.” Now that he was here, Draco had no idea what to say or do. He shoved his hands into his pockets.

“I didn’t know if you would come or not. I told the room to make the door visible to you, in case you did."

“Well, here I am.” He glanced around, refusing to meet Potter's gaze.

Potter shifted on the couch and patted the spot next to him. “Sit. Please.”

Warily, Draco settled in next to him, dropping his satchel onto the floor.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” Potter said. He didn’t seem angry.

“I can assure you, Potter, I have better things to do than keep track of your whereabouts,” he sniffed. It was easier to slip back into an air of haughty indifference. “I’ve been busy.”

“Every time I catch your eye, you look like you’re about to be sick.”

Draco flushed. “Well, excuse me if I don’t giggle and preen like the rest of your admirers.”

“So why did you come, then?” Potter was searching his face, and in the small room, he had nowhere to hide. This had been a horrible mistake.

He said the first thing that came to mind. “You still owe me ten Galleons.”

Silently, Potter fished through his pocket. He pulled out a pile of gold coins. Draco snorted and looked away. Potter reached out, took Draco’s hand, turned his palm up, and gently deposited the Galleons. Draco held his breath. He couldn’t believe that Potter had just grabbed his hand, as though it was nothing.

“There. Your ten Galleons.”

Now what? It seemed petty and beneath him to accept Potter’s money, but giving it back would make him a liar. Feeling foolish, he slipped the coins into his pocket.

Potter was still staring at him. “So you can go, now. That’s everything I owed you, right?”

“Yes.” Draco was mortified at the breathy sound of his voice. Clearing his throat, he said, “But we had a deal. Twenty Galleons an hour, I thought you said. For an hour a week.”

Potter’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh—right. Yeah. So did you, er…are we going to…?”

“Have you been practicing?” Draco asked briskly, rising from the couch. Having regained some control over the situation, he felt more at ease.

“Er—yeah. Last night I was working on levitating things nonverbally.”

“Let’s see, then.”

Potter took a couple of things out of his bag—a quill, an inkpot, a bit of parchment—and set them on the ground. Draco stood out of the way, in the corner, watching as Potter gathered himself.

“Relax,” he reminded him. “You’re so tense again. Haven’t you remembered anything from last time?”

Back turned to him, Potter said quietly, “I remember everything from last time.”

Draco blanched. Pulling himself together, he said roughly: “Right. Go on, then, ease up a bit. You’re all stiff in your shoulders.”

Potter rolled his shoulders and stretched out his arms. He pointed his wand at the inkpot on the floor.

“Your grip,” Draco reminded him. He watched as Potter rearranged his fingers, holding his wand more delicately in his hand.

After a few moments, Draco thought he saw the inkpot twitch a bit.

“It was working last night,” Potter grumbled. “Let me see you do it.”

“Alright.” He stepped forward and drew his wand. With a flick upwards, he lifted the inkpot off the ground. As it floated in the air, Draco looked over at Potter, who was staring at him intently. He lowered his wand, and the inkpot drifted gently to the floor.

Oddly nervous, he said, “So, I just…I’m calm, confident, I think of the spell as I cast…don’t make a big production of it. Go in with intent and keep it simple.”

“Go again.”

“Bossy,” he snapped. When Potter said nothing, he sighed and turned to the quill. Another flick, and it hovered in the air. As he set the quill back down, he realized that Potter was watching his face, not his wand or the quill.

“Your turn.”

“I get so stressed, I don’t know why,” said Potter. “Any other time, with verbal magic, I’m pretty confident. But for some reason, when it comes to casting nonverbally, I get so tense. Like I know it’s not going to work out before I even start.”

“Well, if you’re not confident, how do you expect your magic or your wand to be?”

“That…I never thought of it that way.”

Draco smirked. “Surely you’re not one to lack confidence, Potter.”

“I just can’t make it work,” he muttered. He held out his wand again, pointing it at the quill. Nothing happened.

“For God’s sake,” Draco snapped, stepping towards him. “You don’t listen—that’s your problem.” He reached out and gripped Potter shoulders, pushing them down. “ _Relax_ , I said. Why’re you always holding yourself like you’re about to be hexed?” He took Potter’s hand irritably and spread out his fingers. “And who taught you how to hold a wand?”

“Nobody ever taught me.”

“Well, that’s just great,” he sighed. “Gentler. Be firm, but don’t strangle the bloody thing.”

“What’s wrong with the way I do it?” Potter asked angrily. “It’s been fine all these years.”

“Don’t take my advice, then. You’re the one who asked for help.”

Potter exhaled. “Right. Fine. Like this?” He eased the tension in his wrist.

“Better. You want your wand to feel like it’s an extension of your hand, of you. That way the magic just flows. You need to make it as easy as possible for the magic to pass through.”

Potter concentrated on the quill, took a deep breath, and then flicked his wand upwards. The quill jumped.

“Alright. Try again.”

After a few more tries, it rose shakily, hovering a foot off the ground.

“Good. Now keep focusing.”

After a few moments, the quill started to dip downwards.

“What?” Draco looked over at Potter, and scowled when he saw how hard he was clutching his wand. “Potter! What have I just said? You keep forgetting.” He held Potter’s hand in his, using his own fingers to spread Potter’s apart. “Okay. Tip your wand down a bit, like this. Now, you need to say to yourself, _Wingardium Leviosa…_ don’t just think it over and over again; try to have it flow into your conscience. Not just the words, but the meaning, the intent, the purpose of what you’re trying to do. Visualize the spell working.”

He stood there, hand still on Potter’s, until the quill floated off the floor again. It hung suspended in mid-air. Draco moved Potter’s hand slightly to the right, and the quill drifted to the right. He then moved Potter’s hand to the left, and the quill soared left.

“There,” he said, satisfied. “That’s better.”

Suddenly self-conscious, Draco pulled his hand away. He watched as Potter sent his quill fluttering around the room. He felt odd, but not in the way he usually did when the anxiety threatened to overwhelm him. Standing next to Potter, his stomach was doing all kinds of gymnastics. Potter seemed not to have noticed—he was grinning as he put the quill through a series of loop-the-loops.

“Looks like you’ve got it,” Draco said. “You should be good on your own now.”

“What? No.” Potter turned to him, startled. The quill dropped to the floor. “I’ve only just started. I want to be able to do way more than just basics. Next week let’s try some Stunners.”

“Oh, yes, what a great idea,” he said sarcastically. “Have you Stun me and then leave me here to rot.”

“I would never hurt you,” Potter said quietly.

Draco’s mouth went dry. There was something tender in Potter’s voice and he didn’t know how to react.

“I meant what I said, earlier. I keep thinking about…last time. And the night of the party.”

“That was reckless,” Draco muttered, not quite meeting Potter’s eyes. “Anyone could have seen.”

“Maybe I don’t care.” Potter considered him a moment, and then said, “Why did you come tonight? I thought for sure you wouldn’t.”

“So why did _you_ come, then?”

“I wanted to see you. And I hoped you’d want to see me.”

Draco tried to sneer, but he lacked conviction. “A deal is a deal.”

“Right. I forgot.” Potter dug his hand into his pocket and pulled out another twenty Galleons. “Here.”

Now he was really stumped. It felt wrong, taking Potter’s money, especially after they had…

“Go on, take it.”

“I’m fine, Potter.”

“What? But you just said, a deal’s a deal.” Potter was gazing up at him innocently, brandishing the Galleons in his hand.

“Keep your money. Forget about it.”

Potter stepped forward and reached for Draco’s pocket. For a moment, he panicked, thinking Potter was going to take his wand, but instead he slid the Galleons into his pocket. Long after the last coin had slipped through his fingers, Potter stood there, their chests nearly touching, his hand brushing Draco’s hip.

“Thank you,” Draco whispered. He was looking into Potter’s eyes—those brilliant, green eyes—and as far as he could tell, there was no malice there.

“Anytime.” Potter spoke as if nothing was odd, as if they were two mates at the pub and he had just bought him a drink.

“I’ll…go, then,” Draco said, but he made no move to leave. All at once, everything in him was telling him to reach forward, to touch Potter, to embrace him, to forget about who they both were. And yet there was another part of him urgently shouting that this was not normal, that this wasn’t how he and Potter were supposed to behave with each other—that they were supposed to hate each other. He tried to remember what Potter had said about Vincent, and how disgustingly arrogant that had been, but his fury was quelled by his fervent need to feel Potter’s skin on his.

“Don’t go.” If they hadn’t been so close, Draco would not have heard him—Potter barely mouthed the words.

“I have to.”

“No, you don’t.” Potter was winding his arms around Draco’s shoulders, clasping his hands behind his neck.

“What are we doing?” Draco muttered. Their lips were nearly touching. He could just lean forward…Potter was right there in front of him…

“What d'you mean?” Potter’s eyes were hazy.

“What are we doing, Potter? This isn’t…” He trailed off as Potter brought his lips, ever so delicately, to rest on Draco’s. Draco stood still, not daring to move. Slowly, he ran his teeth along Draco’s bottom lip. Potter’s hands were threading through his hair.

“Tell me you don’t want this,” Potter breathed against his lips. “Tell me you don’t, and I’ll leave. I won’t bother you anymore. We’ll go on like nothing’s happened.”

There was something stuck in Draco’s throat; he could do nothing more than rest his hands around Potter’s waist. Beneath his jumper, Potter was warm. His waist was thin and firm. As before, it suddenly felt very important to remember every touch, every sensation, every detail.

“Tell me to go, and I’ll go.” Potter’s hands had strayed to his buttons; he popped the first one, and then the second, and then the third. Pushing aside the thin material of Draco’s school shirt, he ran his fingers over the small expanse of skin he had revealed. Draco pulled up Potter’s jumper; without comment, Potter held up his arms, allowing Draco to reveal the black t-shirt he was wearing underneath. He chastised himself for being so nervous—he wasn’t exactly a virgin on his wedding night. But for some reason, standing in front of Potter like this, he felt incredibly vulnerable. It terrified him.

As though reading his mind, Potter brought his hands up to cup Draco’s face. Potter’s hands were large, strong, rough; and yet he was being uncharacteristically tender, holding Draco as though he was made of glass. And, oddly, he felt like he needed this, because in truth he felt very fragile, ready to shatter at any moment. It was all he could do to stop himself from shaking. And he couldn't say why. He had done far more scandalous things with plenty of other blokes. But just as their previous encounters had, this felt different.

Draco had no idea how long they stood like that, exploring each other with almost all their clothes on. They took their time, Potter tracing Draco’s lips, his jawline, his neck; Draco slowly rubbed his hands along Potter’s back. He had to admit that the firm expanse of Potter’s shoulders was particularly captivating to him. He kept smoothing his palms down Potter’s arms, noticing every time Potter groaned low in his throat. Finally, he couldn’t take it anymore; he was positive Potter knew what those noises did to him. He pushed their lips together, and as Potter moaned into his mouth, he would have smirked if he wasn’t so nervous, so aroused. They kissed slowly, gently. Draco had known Potter for years now, and yet he felt urgently that he needed to learn everything about him, to learn the taste of him, the smell of him, the soft noises he made.

He suddenly realized that Potter was working through the remaining buttons on his shirt. He froze as Potter popped open the last button and, finally, smoothed his hands over Draco’s skin. At the feel of Potter’s callused hands, he shivered. As Potter pulled off his shirt, he suddenly remembered the Dark Mark—he gripped his arm, panicked, but Potter shook his head silently and pulled Draco’s hand away. He stared down at the Mark, his expression neutral, and then he drew Draco closer. Again, Draco was startled at just how gentle he was. He was used to the Potter who pushed his friends in jest in the corridors, who was so rough with his ingredients in Potions that he often had to redo everything. But here, it was as though Potter’s every move was deliberate.

“Have you done this before?” he asked suddenly.

Potter looked up at him, surprised. “Not really.”

“Meaning?”

He was silent, running his hands up and down Draco’s arms. He felt oddly self-conscious in front of Potter, who was looking at him like a lion appraising its prey. He hugged his arms around his stomach, to cover himself, but Potter pulled his hands away; Draco swore he heard him whisper “no.”

“You’ve never been with a bloke?”

Potter shook his head, and Draco felt his heart leap. There was something irresistibly erotic about the thought that he was Potter’s first.

“Do you…like blokes?”

Again, Potter shook his head. He was pulling off his shirt. Draco helped him, lifting the material past Potter’s arms and casting it aside. He swallowed hard. Potter was thin, sinewy, tanned.

“You don’t like blokes,” he said. He couldn’t help himself—he reached out and rested his hands on Potter’s chest. “So then…what…?”

Draco stared as Potter reached for his belt and started unbuckling it; for someone who had never done this before, he was certainly confident. ‘ _Arrogant Potter,_ ’ Draco thought to himself, but it was half-hearted. In truth, he found Potter’s self-assurance compelling. Usually he took control in these situations, but here he was happy to let Potter lead him. His trousers came off, along with his socks and shoes. Potter pushed him towards the couch. He sat down, pulled Potter onto his lap, and kissed him. He tried to tug down Potter’s jeans, but he brushed his hands away, and instead slid to the floor and settled between Draco’s knees. Surely, he didn’t mean to…

Potter was eyeing him, and he had that hungry look on his face again. Draco felt incredibly vulnerable as he sat there, almost completely naked, with Potter between his knees. His green eyes were roaming, taking in every bit of him. Slowly, deliberately, Potter started to run his lips across Draco’s thighs. He sighed, reaching out to tangle his fingers through Potter’s hair. Potter was teasing him, brushing his lips across the bulge in Draco’s underpants—he was hard, so painfully hard—and kissing along his waistband.

“Potter…” he groaned, shifting in his seat.

Potter looked up at him and smirked; the sight caused Draco to grip his hair even tighter. He had never thought that Potter, of all people, could draw him in like this. It was as though he was in a trance, watching as Potter’s swollen, pink lips pressed against his pale skin.

“Can I?” Potter asked, grabbing hold of his waistband.

“Yeah,” he breathed. Before he could change his mind, Potter had pulled down his pants. There was nowhere to hide—his arousal was right there for Potter to see. He reached out and took Draco’s cock in his hand. After giving a few experimental strokes, Potter rubbed his thumb across the slit. Draco was embarrassed to see that he was leaking already—what had gotten into him?—but Potter was captivated. He brought his thumb up to his mouth and took a tentative lick, grinning as he caught Draco staring at him.

“Alright?” Potter asked, his voice husky.

“Fine.”

Potter gripped him more firmly and continued stroking, glancing up occasionally to note Draco’s reaction. He was trying to control himself, to appear bored, indifferent, detached, but that was easier said than done when Potter was on his knees in front of him. He watched, mesmerized, as Potter took him in his mouth. For a moment, he seemed to hesitate, and Draco was about to tell him to forget about it when Potter gave a long, hard suck. Draco’s head fell back and he covered his face with his hands. Humming to himself thoughtfully, Potter bobbed up and down a few times before pulling back. He lapped at the tip and ran his thumb around it in lazy circles—surely, he meant to drive Draco mad. Draco felt his face flushing, the heat extending to his chest, and he gave a low moan as Potter suddenly took him completely in his mouth.

The world narrowed to just the two of them. Potter’s cheeks were ruddy, his lips red and wet, his eyes closed. There was something so shameless about the way he sucked cock, as though he was lost in it. His hair was messier than ever. Draco couldn’t help but reach out and cup Potter’s face. He needed to touch him, to know that he was really there. His presence was grounding. Potter had settled into a rhythm now, holding the base of Draco’s cock firmly. He was mortified as he realized that he was close. That familiar, tight knot was curling in the base of his stomach, and he found it impossible to do much else than watch as Potter brought him closer to the edge.

“Potter,” he warned, “I’m going to...”

When Potter didn’t respond, he tried to push him away—there was something too intimate, too surreal about the thought of coming into his mouth. Potter growled and gripped his wrist, holding it tightly as he continued his ministrations. Potter’s grasp around his wrist, the sight of him sucking Draco even as he had just warned him he was about to come—it was too much for him. He gave a sharp cry as he spilled into Potter’s mouth. Fuck. _Fuck._ Potter stared back at him, taking everything, pumping his cock greedily as he coaxed him through his release.

Spent, Draco was dimly aware of Potter climbing back onto his lap. He had a sly smile on his face; Draco supposed he was quite pleased with himself. Usually, he hated touching after sex. Perhaps it was the sudden exhaustion, but he could do little more than run his hands across Potter’s back as Potter nuzzled the side of his neck.

“It was alright, then?” Potter asked quietly.

“Yeah, it was...yeah.” Trying to regain his composure, he asked, “You’re sure that was your first time?”

“Yeah.”

“Of course you suck cock like you’ve been doing it for years,” he murmured. Potter laughed.

As his senses came back to him, he started to notice how hard Potter was through his jeans. His sleepiness gave way to the need to touch him. He started to pull down his jeans, but Potter pushed his hands away.

“Another time.”

“What?” Draco frowned and reached out again. Potter grasped his hands and drew them away.

“No,” he said in that same voice he had used before—stern, serious, no-nonsense. And once again, butterflies erupted in Draco’s stomach; he swore his heart missed one or two beats.

“If you say so,” he said, trying to mask the desperate arousal he felt again. What was wrong with him? The giddiness was as overwhelming as it was confusing.

Potter didn’t seem cross with him. Instead, he leaned in and kissed him softly. Draco kissed him back, acutely aware of the warmth of Potter’s skin as it rubbed against his. He was starting to become hard again when Potter pulled away.

“We should get going,” he whispered.

“Yeah.” Neither of them moved.

“Next Tuesday, then?”

“For...this? Or to practice?”

“Both. You should know...if you’re going to keep teaching me nonverbal magic, we’re going to end up like this more often than not.”

Draco raised his eyebrows. “Meaning what?”

“Meaning...” Potter smirked. “I don’t know how you haven’t realized by now, but you’re very sexy, doing nonverbal magic like it’s nothing.”

Draco gaped at him. He had heard all sorts of flattery before, but there was something so earnest, so genuine about Potter as he praised him. Potter blushed.

“You’re taking the piss, now.”

“I’m not,” he protested. “I thought you’d have noticed me watching whenever you...well, anyway...”

Potter was clearly embarrassed, which delighted Draco to no end. “Like it, do you, Potter?” he drawled. “I had no idea it would be so easy to get you into bed.”

“And I had no idea it would be so easy to get you to come in my mouth like that.”

Fuck, how did he _do_ that? He was Potter, for God’s sake; Potter, the world’s saviour. Innocent, strait-laced Potter, who most certainly did not go around sucking other blokes’ cocks and being so damned direct about it.

“Your mouth is filthy,” he said shakily.

Potter laughed. “Maybe. But come on, let’s go. There’ll be a search party out looking for us.”

Draco dressed in silence, watching as Potter went back to levitating the inkpot nonverbally. It was strange, how he could resume his practice as though nothing had happened. Perhaps for Potter this _was_ nothing, just another fling that he would forget about by time he got back to his common room. But it was disconcerting. Potter had been so present, so forceful, so serious, and now he was as casual as ever. How could he switch so quickly? Draco had always prided himself on his detachment, his ability to refuse to become emotionally involved with anyone he slept with. But he had to admit that he needed a second to compose himself as he tucked his shirt into his trousers and did his buttons up one by one. He was still lightheaded. As he finished dressing himself, Potter levitated the inkpot neatly into his bag. Pleased with himself, he did the same with the bit of parchment and quill that lay on the floor.

Draco opened the door and made to leave when Potter reached out and flattened his collar. “Thanks,” he mumbled, oddly incapable of meeting Potter’s eyes.

“You go first,” said Potter. “In case someone’s around.”

Draco felt as though he should say something, but he was lost for words. He felt a peculiar pang as he dipped out of the doorway and quickly strode down the corridor. He met no one on the way back to his common room, and thank God—he wasn’t sure he had enough sense to fabricate an excuse for being out so late. By the time he reached his dorm, it was just past eleven. Of course, Nott and Zabini were still awake, lounging on their respective beds. Nott was flipping through _Which Broomstick?_ , reading out excerpts as Zabini lay back, listening. They both looked up as Draco entered.

“Where’ve you been?” Nott asked at once.

“Detention.”

“With who? For what?”

“Proudfoot.” He said the first name he could think of. “Caught me in the corridor after curfew. Drunk.”

“And? We’re of age, now. It’s ridiculous that we still have a curfew. I heard most of the teachers aren’t even enforcing it,” said Nott.

“Well, tell that to Proudfoot.”

“And what was your detention, Draco?” asked Blaise. His tone was casual enough, but Draco saw his eyes following him skeptically.

“Lines.”

Nott sat up in indignation. “They have an eighth year doing lines? We’re of age! Just stop going. What’s he going to do?”

Draco regretted the lie, but he hadn’t known what else to say. “Expel me? I don’t know. I don’t want to tempt them.”

“Going to get the new Firebolt, Draco?” Nott asked, turning back to his magazine.

“Maybe.” Of course he wasn’t—he had no idea what funds he had remaining in his Gringotts account, but he had been shocked over the past few days at the large amounts his father kept withdrawing.

“I’d love to trade up my old Nimbus,” Nott said wistfully.

“You don’t even play,” Zabini sneered.

“And? Spent half my summer flying. The Nimbus isn’t completely outclassed yet, but...”

Draco tuned them out as he changed into his pyjamas. He was terrified that the other two would be able to tell what he had been up to as soon as he undressed, as though Potter’s lips had left permanent marks on his skin. And there was still the matter of his father’s package, tucked away in his trunk. He spent hours at night laying there, wondering what the velvet pouch contained, and thinking through all kinds of worst-case scenarios.

The others went to bed when he did. Zabini turned off the lights, casting the room into darkness. In his bed, the curtains draw around him, Draco basked in the relief of finally being alone with his thoughts. There was simply too much to process. What he had done with Potter...it had been less than an hour ago, and yet he already felt as though it had been a dream. A strange, surreal, incredibly erotic dream, in which Potter had driven him absolutely mad with his hands, his mouth. And why? That was the most vexing part of all. According to Potter, he didn’t like blokes.. Of all the people to experiment with, why him? He still couldn’t shake the fear that he was being set up somehow, that this was all some elaborate prank, or worse. And yet there was no denying the captivated look on Potter’s face. He certainly hadn’t been laughing. But why wouldn’t he let Draco touch him? Maybe he didn’t dare allow himself to be sullied by a Death Eater, thought himself too good to stoop to that level...but then why would he get down on his knees so eagerly...

At the thought, he was hard again. God, he was losing his mind. He knew that he needed to snap out of it, to refuse to see Potter again, but there was the uncomfortable truth that during his time with Potter, his anxiety faded away. His mind had been so preoccupied with the irresistible sight of Potter taking him into his mouth that he had forgotten to worry about his parents, their finances, his father’s trial, everything that had happened over the last four years...he was loath to admit it, but for one blessed hour Potter had provided him with an escape from himself.


	12. xii.

Wednesday and Thursday, Potter barely seemed to notice him. He hardly looked his way during Potions, preferring to talk loudly with Weasley about some stupid story involving garden gnomes. Draco forced himself not to look up at Potter, and refused to notice how ably he twisted his knotgrass, how firmly he grasped his knife as he worked through his leeches. Potter was so relaxed, chucking in his ingredients as he and Weasley moved on to a discussion of their upcoming Charms assignment. Draco worked quietly next to Zabini, trying to pretend that Potter wasn’t there, and absolutely refusing to meet his eyes the one time Potter glanced over at him.

He was anxious about their study group on Thursday, although he couldn’t say why. By now, nearly every student from fifth to eighth year was attending their informal lessons. This week, they were supposed to be working on more advanced Transfiguration in anticipation of their O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s. Potter had set out a neat row of cushions, which the students were directed to transfigure into teapots.

“Transfiguration isn’t my strongest subject,” Potter muttered to him, smiling ruefully as the students split off into pairs. “You’ll have to take the lead on this one.”

“Surely you’re good at everything, Potter,” he said, watching as a sixth-year Hufflepuff turned her cushion from green to orange.

“Oh, I’m quite good at some things,” Potter said mildly. “Most of them involving my mouth.”

Draco looked at him, startled. Surely they had a silent agreement to act as though nothing had happened? Those were the rules he thought they were playing by. He stared as Potter winked at him and then strode over to help a Gryffindor fifth-year who had just set his cushion on fire. Draco felt absolutely ridiculous as he stood rooted to the spot, trying to slow the frantic pace his heart had taken up. Shaken, he did his best to put Potter out of his mind as he worked his way through the students, correcting them as they waved their wands too forcefully or, worse still, mispronounced the incantation. Transfiguration was a tricky business, and his nerves were on edge as he darted around, trying to prevent any disasters. Only a few of them seemed to get the hang of it by the end of the hour: Granger, of course, had turned her cushion into a beautifully ornate teapot, and was helping Weasley with his.

“Right,” Potter called to get their attention. “That was a good effort. But it looks like we have a long way to go with Transfiguration. Let’s focus on that for the next few weeks, yeah?”

“Perhaps we should have Delacour here to help us,” Draco said quietly.

“Er—yeah,” Potter said. He looked surprised. “Yeah. That’s a good idea.”

“I do have them sometimes.” Sniggers from the Slytherins.

“Yeah. Alright. I’ll ask her if she can come next week, give us some pointers. What do you lot think?” He turned to the assembled students; several of them were nodding.

“Okay. Until next week, then. Thanks everyone. And keep practicing.”

As the students filed out, Draco made his way over to the other Slytherin eighth-years, who stood huddled together.

“Did you see Smith?” Zabini was smirking. “The way he throws his wand around everywhere. I can’t believe he hasn’t taken someone’s eye out yet.”

“He’s always acted like he’s better than everyone else, but he’s mediocre at best,” Pansy sniffed.

“God, this is a sad lot.” Zabini eyed the students critically as they left the Great Hall. “I don’t know how you manage, Draco. How disappointing for you, stuck being the teachers’ assistant while the rest of us are actually preparing for our careers.”

“From where I was standing, I didn’t see you making much progress either, Blaise,” he drawled. The others tittered as Zabini gazed down at him imperiously. He looked as though he was about to snap back, but instead he gave Draco a wicked smile and threaded his arm through his.

“Perhaps I need a better teacher,” he said so quietly that only Draco could hear him. “Or maybe some private lessons.”

Draco scoffed. “You’d best go ask Potter. He seems to be the expert.”

He stiffened as Blaise drew even closer, whispering into his ear, “But I miss _our_ private lessons together, Draco. Don’t you?”

Before he could respond, someone had grabbed him roughly by the arm, pushing between himself and Zabini. Furious, Draco reached for his wand and was about to fling a particularly vicious hex when he saw who it was.

“Potter,” he snarled. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Need to talk to you,” he said through gritted teeth. Draco looked back at Zabini, who had dropped his usual air of cool indifference and was instead gaping as Potter marched him through the entrance hall.

“Get off me, Potter, people are staring,” he growled. But Potter ignored him, apparently oblivious to the looks of fear and curiosity as the other students gave them a wide berth. He half-dragged Draco down the corridor and shoved him into an empty classroom, slamming the door behind him and locking it with a sharp tap of his wand. He pushed Draco up against the wall, and for a moment, looking into Potter’s furious eyes, he had to admit that he was frightened.

“What the fuck is your problem?” he demanded.

“What was that with Zabini?” Potter asked in a low voice.

“ _What_?”

“With Zabini. As you were leaving. What was that?”

“What was what? I have no idea what you’re on about, Potter—let me go, you’ve lost your mind—"

“I saw you two whispering together, holding each other.”

“Holding each other? I don’t know what you think you saw, but—"

He was cut off as Potter kissed him fiercely. He kissed him back, just as angrily, wanting to hex him into tomorrow but also inexplicably needing to taste him and to feel him. When they finally broke apart, Potter’s breathing was ragged. He loosened his grip on Draco’s arms, but he still held him pressed against the wall, barely an inch of space between them. They stood like that, glowering at each other, until finally Potter said in a low voice, “I don’t want him touching you.”

Draco laughed breathlessly. “Oh, really? I’m your property now, am I?”

“Yeah.” The way Potter said it, and the angry, possessive look in his eyes, caused Draco to feel dizzy. He wanted to tell Potter to fuck off, but he couldn’t get the words out. “Do you understand?”

Draco scowled and gave a half-hearted attempt to push Potter off him. Damn, he was strong. “You’re so fucking arrogant, Potter. You can’t just boss me around. God, you’re such a fucking prick.”

“Watch your mouth,” Potter growled. Draco’s breath caught in his throat. He should hate Potter for this, should curse him for daring to be so insolent, but instead he was so hard that it hurt. He had seen Potter angry plenty of times—had instigated it more than once—but there was an edge to him now that Draco couldn’t quite place.

Suddenly, Potter reached down and undid Draco’s belt buckle. He yanked down Draco’s trousers and pants, swatting away his hands with a frustrated snarl as Draco tried to reach for Potter’s zip. He dared not complain as Potter took him in hand, pumping roughly. It was so sudden, so unexpected, that he gave a sharp gasp. In response, Potter laced his hand through Draco’s hair and brought their lips together again. They kissed, and it was nothing like the gentle, cautious kiss they had shared Tuesday night. This was raw, fiery, a fight for dominance as Potter continued to stroke him. Draco couldn’t help but moan as Potter bit down on his bottom lip—the metallic taste of blood should have angered him but only served to arouse him further.

He was taken by surprise as he suddenly came in Potter’s fist. It was almost too much—Potter's lips on his, his rough hand on his cock, his hands on Potter’s shoulders, trying to ground himself in some way. He felt so much at once that it was nearly painful. There was no way of stopping himself from giving a long, ragged groan as Potter held him through his release. Finally spent, he sagged back against the wall. He noted vaguely that Potter was cleaning the mess with a silent wave of his wand. They stood together for some time, Draco trying to steady his breathing, Potter supporting him in his arms. He was much gentler now. He seemed content to watch Draco, occasionally tracing his lips along his neck, as he composed himself.

Embarrassed—by how quickly he had come for Potter, by the noises he had made, by his willingness to accept a handjob in an empty classroom—Draco rearranged his shirt and did up his trousers. Drained as he was, he still wanted to reach out and touch Potter. He couldn’t deny that he had been up the past two nights thinking about how Potter might writhe and moan under his hands. But Potter was already pulling away, a satisfied smirk on his face.

“I don’t want to see that again,” he said. “Understood?”

God, Draco absolutely loathed himself for it, but he was so stunned that he couldn’t do much else besides nod faintly.

“I’ll talk to Fleur about coming to next week’s session. Proudfoot said he might show up in the next few weeks, to see how we’re getting on.”

Potter turned to leave, swinging his bag over his shoulder.

“Potter,” Draco said suddenly, dismayed at the rasp in his voice. As Potter looked over at him, Draco was struck forcefully by the way his hair curled around his ears, by the shade of pink that still coloured his cheeks, by the snug fit of his uniform shirt around his waist. God, he was doomed. “You did nonverbal magic just now. Twice.”

Potter gave him a sly grin. “You’re a good teacher.” And with that he left Draco to try to collect his thoughts.


	13. xiii.

As he arrived in the common room, Draco wasn’t surprised to see the other eighth-year Slytherins waiting for him. They sat in a tight circle around the fireplace, talking in low voices. At the sight of the fire, Draco’s heart lurched—he had somehow forgotten about his meeting with his father. He hoped to creep up to the dorm unnoticed, but of course Pansy and Daphne spotted him.

“Draco!” Pansy cried as he trudged over. “What the hell was that about?”

“What?”

“Don’t ‘what’ me! You know exactly what! Potter looked ready to kill you.”

“Would you keep your voice down?” he snapped. The common room was full of students, several of them staring at him. At Pansy’s reproachful look, he said more softly, “I don’t need half the room hearing my business.”

“What happened, then?” Daphne pressed him.

He sunk down into an empty spot on the sofa next to her. On the way back, he had been thinking up a convincing lie. “He didn’t like the way I was talking to some Ravenclaw girl. No idea what her name is.”

“Oh, Draco, what did you say?” Daphne asked him, her voice full of worry.

“Nothing,” he said defensively. “Potter just thought I was too sharp with her. You know how he gets: he coddles all of them.”

“But he looked _really_ mad,” Nott said. “You must’ve said something awful. I’m surprised he sent you back to the common room in one piece.”

“I didn’t do anything!” he said, affronted. “And Potter doesn’t send me anywhere. I told him to piss off and came back.”

“You didn’t look so brave when he was dragging you out of the Great Hall,” Zabini mused, his eyes as sharp as ever.

“I thought he’d finally gone mad. Anyway, it’s business as usual: Potter hates me, I loathe him. I’m sorry I don’t have anything more exciting to share.”

“Well, he can’t just punish you whenever he feels like it. He’s not a teacher,” said Millicent. Draco winced at her words—Potter hadn’t exactly punished him, had he? Though he had certainly been stern with him...

“I’m fine. Potter just likes to play the hero and put on a show. I don’t know why you’re all making such a big deal out of this.”

“Because he looked murderous!” said Pansy. “You should have seen Weasley and Granger. They were shocked, too! Just stood there staring, didn’t they?” The others nodded.

“Yes, well, maybe Potter’s a bit touched in the head after everything that's happened.” Standing up, he said, “I’m going to go change. See you.”

Before they could call him back, he hurried up to the dorm. Greg was asleep—the curtains surrounding his bed were drawn, and Draco could hear the soft sound of his snores. He needed to shower. He grabbed his things and headed for the bathroom. With the water as hot as he could stand it, Draco stood under the spray and examined himself. From what he could tell, he had no bruises. Scrubbing as hard as he could, Draco tried to strip himself of Potter’s touch on his skin. It was as though he had been branded. Part of him had expected to see marks wherever Potter had kissed and touched him. How could it be that he was unmarked after all that? How was it that on the inside he felt twisted inside-out, utterly rearranged and reconfigured, and yet by appearances he was exactly the same? He didn’t feel the same, not at all. How could he be, after he had just been possessed by Potter, as though he were _his_ , as though he belonged to him...the thought should have outraged him, but instead he was lightheaded. What was perhaps most compelling, he thought as he rinsed his hair, was the thought of them sneaking around...Potter, the Chosen One, the Boy Who Lived Twice, kept seeking him out and bringing him off, and nobody knew. It was possible that nobody except for Draco knew what a wicked mouth their Saviour had, or how he looked when he was almost breathless from the force of being kissed.

After changing into his pyjamas, Draco climbed into bed. He was supposed to be working on a chart for Arithmancy, but he couldn’t be bothered. His head was spinning. It wasn’t even two months into the term yet, and already his world had been flipped upside-down. He wondered where Potter was right now—what he was doing, how he felt, whether or not he was thinking of Draco and all that they had gotten up to. He felt ridiculous, mooning over Potter like a first year, but try as he might he couldn’t get him out of his mind. Visions of Potter ripping down Draco’s pants, taking him in his hand, staring at him with those intense eyes that refused to look away...they all melded together, both exciting and terrifying him. He was curious whether Potter’s friends had accosted him, and if so, what he had said. But perhaps they were all in the know...there was still the chance that this was some queer plot and he was their unsuspecting victim. He still wasn’t sure how he had gotten to this point. To let Potter drag him wherever he wanted, and do whatever he pleased...it went against every bit of dignity he had left. And yet a small voice in his head reminded him that he wanted this. Wanted to be taken, to be ordered around. For some reason it quelled the anxiety that always bubbled just beneath the surface, threatening to overcome him.

Eventually, the others came up, changed, and went to sleep. When his wristwatch showed ten minutes to three, Draco slipped out of bed. The floor was cold, and he wanted to search for his slippers, but he was too scared of waking up his dormmates. He made his way down to the common room, and groaned when he saw Daphne sitting in an armchair next to the fire. It could have been worse—it could have been Nott, or Zabini—but he still broke out into a panicked sweat as he strode towards her.

“Daphne,” he said. “What are you doing down here?” He sat in the sofa across from her, and then froze as he saw tears rolling down her face. Her eyes were red and puffy; she had obviously been crying for a while.

“Oh, Draco,” she mumbled, quickly wiping her face with her sleeve. “Sorry. I didn’t know you were there.”

“Are you...okay?”

“I’m fine.” She took a deep, steadying breath.

“Right.” Draco had no idea what to say. He sat there, bewildered, as she went back to staring into the fire. He kept glancing at the hearth, terrified that his father’s face would show up at any moment.

“I’ve gotten a letter from my mum,” she said bitterly. “I just finished burning it. Apparently, she isn’t very happy with my grades so far.”

“We’re barely into the first term. There’s loads of time before N.E.W.T.s.”

“Yeah. But I’m not going to get any better at Runes or Arithmancy, am I?”

“Why do you let her bother you?” Draco asked suddenly. Daphne looked up at him, surprised. “What does it matter what she says? You’re of age, aren’t you? Tell her to sod off.”

“She’s still my mum. God, I would love to tell her off. But I’m still scared of her. Or at least, I'm scared she won’t want anything to do with me afterwards.” Daphne considered him. “Is that what you do, when your parents are trying to control you? Just tell them to piss off?”

“I guess.”

She gave a watery laugh. “But I’m not like you, Draco. I’m not like any of you. I’m not brave, and I don’t think I could stand to be alone. I still need her. I’m of age, but when it comes to my parents, I’m like a little girl. You probably think I’m pathetic.”

“I don’t,” he said quietly.

“Well, anyway.” She gave a great sniff and pulled her hair from her face. “What are you doing down here? Can’t sleep?”

“Er, yeah. Can’t sleep.”

“Draco.” She hesitated, and then continued, “Blaise and Theo, they were saying you had detention with Proudfoot the other day. But…he was with McGonagall and Flitwick. I saw them. They were headed down to the pitch to inspect it before the first match.”

He took a sudden interest in his cuticles, refusing to meet her eyes.

“It’s okay,” she said softly. “I know what this lot are like. But...whatever you’re doing, I hope you’re being careful. Does Pansy know, at least?”

“No. And I’d really rather that you didn’t tell her.”

“’Course I won’t. It’s funny, sometimes I think you’re as lonely as I am these days.”

He stared at her.

“Well, I’ll leave you to it,” Daphne said, rising from her chair. Draco checked his watch; two minutes left. “Think you can look over my Runes essay tomorrow?”

“Yeah. Sure. Bring it to breakfast.”

She brightened at that. “Thanks, Draco. Have a good night.”

Draco held his breath as she climbed the stairs to the girls’ dorm. When the sound of her echoing footsteps had faded, he turned to the fire, and gave a start at the sight of his father’s face suspended in the flickering flames.

“Father,” he said stiffly. He shifted to the armchair Daphne had just vacated.

“Draco. How are you?”

“Fine. How was your hearing?”

“That...” He gave a deep sigh. “I’m sure you saw, in the papers...your poor mother...it’s difficult for her, seeing our business plastered all over those bloody rags...but anyway...” Draco jumped as his father suddenly set off into a coughing fit, at one point ducking out of view as he wheezed.

“Father?” he asked uncertainly.

“I’m fine, I’m fine.” His father finally reappeared. Shaking his head, he said, “I’ve come down with something. Anyway...it went as well as you can imagine...Your mother insisted that I speak to you by Floo, rather than writing all this in a letter.” He paused, weighing his words, before continuing: “It seems that the Ministry has decided to use me as an example. I haven’t been sentenced yet; there are still two more hearings to go. But I still have some contacts within the Ministry...they tell me what they can, what whispers they hear...and it’s become quite clear that they’re going to find me guilty on all counts, and that they plan on using the Dementor’s Kiss on me.”

“Shacklebolt would never do that,” Draco said at once. “He hates the dementors. Last I heard, he plans to get rid of them, even in Azkaban.”

“Eventually, yes. But for now...the Wizengamot has the final say, and they are supposed to be at arm’s length from the Minister in this respect. It’s been very difficult for them to gather enough evidence on most of the others...the ones still alive, anyway. So it seems that they’re using me as a scapegoat.”

“Father,” Draco said in alarm, “your lawyers have to do something. It’s barbaric. Write to Shacklebolt, he’s not unreasonable, you told me once—"

“We’re doing everything we can here. I assure you my lawyers have considerably more experience in these matters than you,” he said coolly. “Anyway, there are still two more hearings to go, as I’ve said...and these are only rumours. Still, your mother thought it preferable that you hear the news from me before reading it in the papers.”

“Mother...how is she?”

His father winced. “Your mother...it’s all been very hard on her.”

“And what about the package? The one I picked up in Hogsmeade?”

“Ah, yes. You’ve kept it somewhere safe, I presume?”

“It’s in my trunk upstairs.”

“Keep it on your person. It’s safer that way. We can’t be too careful.”

“But if I’m caught with it?”

“I can assure you, it’s nothing you won’t be able to explain away.”

“Should I try to get it to you now?” he asked. “Would it help at all?”

“No, not yet.” His father coughed again, hacking into his elbow. He went on in a rasping voice, “It’s safer with you for now. Keep it with you at all times. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll let you know when I need it. If we can hold off until Christmas, when you come for the holidays...but we’ll see...who knows...” He trailed off and then eyed Draco, considering him. “And your classes?”

“Fine. Everything’s fine.”

He nodded curtly. “Good. Do write to your mother more often. She may not always respond...it’s harder for her to sit in one place these days, to focus long enough to write...but she still likes to hear from you. Tell her about your classes. Your friends. Give her some kind of distraction.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Right. You’d best get back to sleep. Keep an eye out for my next letter.” And with that, before he could say goodbye, his father’s face had disappeared.

Back in bed, Draco stared up at the ceiling, wide awake. Things had been tense between him and his father for years now. Theirs was a complicated relationship, made more difficult by the Dark Lord’s intrusion into the Manor and the bitter fights between his parents over their involvement with the Death Eaters. Regardless, he couldn’t bring himself to consider the possibility of his father being subjected to the Dementor’s Kiss. Everyone said it was worse than death. He had no idea how his mother would carry on if it were to happen. He still believed that Shacklebolt had some sense, and that he wouldn’t be so cruel, but the papers had been absolutely scathing in their portrayal of his father. Now that the Dark Lord was gone, and so many Death Eaters were in hiding or dead, it seemed that in many ways his father had become the target of an incredible barrage of collective anger. He hoped that the Wizengamot wouldn’t give in to public opinion, but it wouldn’t be the first time a trial had turned out unfairly.


	14. xiv.

If Draco’s anxiety had ebbed away over the past month, it was now back in full force. He was quite the expert at going through the motions, and so he continued to attend his classes and submit his assignments as though nothing was wrong. He forced himself to lounge around in the common room with the others every evening, joining in their conversations on occasion. He signed yet another form from Gringotts, this one requesting authorization for a withdrawal of five hundred Galleons. The eighth years planned a trip to Hogsmeade after the Halloween feast, but he stayed behind, pretending to have to redo an essay for Potions. The lies came so easily to him nowadays. He wondered if that made him a terrible person, to be able to lie without hesitation right to people’s faces. Worse still, they seemed to accept his stories. While Pansy was put out at first, by the time they came back she was in high spirits, rambling on about some bloke she had seen in the pub and who had promised to meet up with her next weekend.

He spent more and more time outdoors. The November air was nippy, and most days he had to wear his winter cloak along with a pair of gloves and earmuffs. It was impossible to go out now without casting a decent Warming Charm. Still, he trod the grounds for hours, and he even spent a few evenings flying around the pitch. As his father had requested, Draco kept the velvet pouch with him at all times, either in his satchel or tucked into his cloak. He had become obsessive, constantly checking if it was still there. A part of him was glad that he didn’t know what the pouch contained, as he doubted very much that its contents were as benign as his father had let on. Still, the pouch had become almost a talisman for him; protecting that little package was apparently the only thing he could do to help his parents...his mother. And so he continuously checked on it, either feeling for it under his cloak or regularly peeking inside his satchel during class to make sure that it was still there, nestled beside his old wand. It was the only way he could keep his nerves under control. He felt as though at any moment he was going to crack and go mad. Whenever the post came in, he steeled himself, terrified that he was going to receive some awful news from his parents. The slightest noises set him off—in Charms, Nott had blown up the paperweight he was working on with a loud _bang._ The explosion caused Draco to nearly leap out of his chair. Thankfully, class ended shortly after, and he was able to rush to the bathroom where he splashed cold water on his face, still shaking.

He found himself avoiding Potter as much as he could. Sometimes this proved impossible, as in the case of the study groups they led. As he had promised, Potter invited Delacour to one of their meetings, and she spent the hour revising with them the incredibly delicate wand movements required for trans-species Transfiguration. In addition to finally improving some of the thickest students’ efforts, her lecture also served the dual purpose of making it impossible for Potter to speak to him. The moment the hour was up, Draco all but ran to the dungeons. He had, of course, noticed Potter’s furtive glances, particularly after he skipped two of their Tuesday evening sessions without explanation. With everything going on in his life, he didn’t need Potter further complicating it.

The first Saturday of November marked the first Quidditch match of the season: Slytherin versus Gryffindor. The excitement was palpable. Even the teachers discussed almost nothing but the long-awaited match. Both houses' chances were hotly debated. If Draco had been vaguely interested in the match a few weeks ago, he couldn’t have cared less now. Sitting next to the others at breakfast, listening to them prattle on about Slytherin’s odds, he felt an overwhelming urge to shake all of them, to hit them, to ask them how they could care about a stupid game when his father faced a punishment worse than death and his mother could do nothing to stop it. His father’s next hearing was November eighteenth—only a few days away.

Pansy, Daphne, and Millicent had arrived at breakfast donning Slytherin scarves and hats. Draco thought them rather ridiculous, but he kept his opinions to himself. He spotted Nott excitedly shaking Harper’s hand, wishing him luck. The only upswing to all of this was that the _Prophet_ had released another detailed article accusing his father of more Muggle torture during the Dark Lord’s reign, but everyone else was too excited over the match to read the paper. As Pansy settled in next to him, filling her plate with tomatoes and rashers, she eyed his single cup of black coffee critically.

“Fill up,” she said. “Quidditch matches always mean a late lunch.”

“I’m fine.”

“What’s gotten into you?” she asked. “You love Quidditch.”

“Yeah.” Truthfully, his head hurt from all the noise, and for some reason everyone else’s excitement was wearing on him, but he chose to say nothing. Before long, the Great Hall started to clear as students and faculty made their way down to the pitch. Pansy took Draco’s hand and led him along with her, chattering with Daphne as they followed the crowd. By the time they arrived at the stands, most seats were taken. They found a spot near the back of the Slytherin box and just barely managed to squeeze in. The sound of the crowd was deafening. In the teachers’ box, Draco saw Slughorn dressed in garish green robes, while Hagrid wore an enormous scarlet flower pinned to his coat.

“Reckon Potter’s angry he can’t play?” Nott asked him.

“Probably.” He looked over at the Gryffindor box and spotted Potter easily enough, tucked between a bushy brown mane and a flash of red hair. Unnerved, Draco looked away. “You know he fancies himself a world-class Seeker.”

“Wasn’t half bad, though, was he?” Theo mused. Draco scoffed as Nott pulled out a pair of Omnioculars and pressed them to his face.

“Really?” he sneered. “This is hardly the World Cup. I’m sure you’ll be able to follow along just fine.”

“Oh, piss off,” said Nott as he scanned the pitch.

“He’s just trying to get a good look at Weasley,” Pansy laughed, leaning towards them to be heard over the din of the crowd.

“Quiet, here they come!”

All at once, the players burst out onto the pitch, cutting through the air to thunderous applause. Madam Hooch was striding out into the centre of the field, carrying the wooden box that contained the Quaffle, Bludgers, and Snitch. The players assembled into a loose circle around her with their captains, Weasley and Harper, meeting in the middle. As Hooch lectured them on the importance of avoiding any physical contact and other “dishonest behaviour,” Draco glanced across the pitch at the Gryffindor box—he could have sworn Potter was looking his way. He passed a hand through his hair nervously and tried to focus his attention on the game as Hooch gave a shrill blast of her whistle.

“And they’re off!” Draco nearly jumped out of his seat as Longbottom’s voice filled the air. Craning his neck, he saw that Longbottom was seated at the commentator’s podium, with McGonagall next to him. “The first, highly-anticipated match of the season, between Gryffindor and Slytherin…Robins has the Quaffle, passes it to Thomas…he passes it back to Robins…ah, just missed it…Baddock’s got the Quaffle, there he goes—but no! Hit by a Bludger! Looks like he’s got Coote to thank for that…Back to Robins, now…she avoids a Bludger—nice one—passes to Skeres—back to Robins—looks like she’s going to try to score, can she get by Pritchard? There it is—there she goes—GRYFFINDOR SCORES!”

A roar of cheers from the Gryffindor box; Draco watched as Potter stood and clapped for Robins. Around him, the Slytherins were groaning, but he hardly paid attention.

“What’s Pritchard playing at?” Nott snarled, fixing his Omnioculars onto him. “Anyone could have seen she was feinting!”

“Apparently not,” said Zabini.

The game was a fast and ruthless one. Robins scored once more, but Baddock just managed to get past McDonald and score for Slytherin. There was a tense moment where Weasley spotted the Snitch and dove for it. Harper raced after her, and they were neck and neck when a Bludger suddenly smashed into Harper, throwing him and Weasley against the stands. The Snitch must have sped away: after shouting at one another, the two Seekers retreated to opposite ends of the pitch to search for it. In the meantime, Daley had scored another point for Slytherin.

As the students around him shouted and clapped, Draco felt dizzy. He knew at once what was happening—another one of his episodes. He gripped his knees, trying to concentrate on the match. Pritchard had just made a spectacular save, earning himself a loud cheer from the Slytherins. Draco tried to bring his hands together to clap, but they were shaking. If only everyone would shut up for a minute. Their screams, the sound of their feet pounding against the wooden stands, Longbottom’s voice droning on…it was too much. He felt as though he was going to be sick. The voice in the back of his head had returned, warning him that something horrible was going to happen, that he was in danger, that there was no escape. Nott was yelling something next to him, but he couldn’t hear over the sound of his heartbeat pulsing in his ears.

Abruptly, Draco stood. In his haste to swing his satchel over his shoulder, he knocked the head of a sixth-year girl seated in front of them. She shouted several rude words at him, but he ignored her as he made to squeeze past Nott.

“Draco? What is it?” Pansy asked, trying to grab his hand; he brushed her away.

“Forgot something,” he said gruffly.

“Draco?” Daphne was staring up at him with wide, confused eyes.

He didn’t know what else to say, so he pushed past Nott and clambered down the stands. As he traipsed back towards the castle, he instantly felt better. Pressed between the others, he hadn’t been able to feel the cold air on his face: it nipped at him now, the strong wind cutting his cheeks. He wanted desperately to stay outside, to relish the cold and the way it parsed through his jumbled thoughts, but he couldn’t risk being seen or questioned. He thought he might head to the Owlery and spend some time with Callidus in the drafty room. Perhaps he would finally write that letter to his mother. His mother, his poor mother, he could still remember so clearly the look of anguish on her face as she pleaded with him not to join the Death Eaters, begged his father to send him away somewhere safe…

He had just pushed his way through the double doors when he heard someone call his name. Draco looked around, bewildered, and saw Potter jogging up the path towards him.

“What do you want?”

If his words stung, Potter didn’t show it; slightly breathless, his cheeks pink, he reached out and grasped Draco’s arm, startling him. “Where are you going?”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” he snarled, ripping his arm out of Potter’s grasp. “I’m not sneaking around the castle, if that’s what you think. You can stop spying on me now.”

“That’s not what I think.”

“Right, then leave me alone.” Potter’s close proximity did nothing to soothe his nerves—if anything, his chest felt tighter than ever.

“Come with me.”

“What?”

“Come on.” Draco growled as Potter took his arm again. Indignant, he meant to pull away, but Potter was leading him through the entrance hall and up the staircase. They walked in silence. He didn’t want Potter to know how shaky he was, how fragile he felt, and so he kept his mouth shut. Up and up they went, past the portraits, most of whom were profiting from the students’ absence to have a morning nap. Potter still hadn’t relinquished his tight hold on Draco’s arm, and he didn’t dare complain; he was so lightheaded he wondered if Potter’s grasp was the only thing keeping him upright.

As they reached the seventh floor, Draco thought they were headed for the Room of Requirement, but instead Potter led him down a separate passage. He only realized where they were going when they stopped at the Fat Lady’s portrait.

“Colin Creevey,” said Potter, dragging him through the portrait hole without missing a beat. At the sound of that name, Draco’s stomach lurched. He had never been inside the Gryffindor common room, but he hardly had time to look around as Potter pulled him up the stairs to the dorms. The eighth-year boys’ dorm was at the top of a winding staircase. Potter shut the door behind them as Draco surveyed the room critically. It was far messier than his own room: several pairs of shoes were stacked in a corner near the wardrobe, while the nightstands were littered with magazines, sweets, and framed photos. Draco realized that Potter still hadn’t let go of him, and he turned to tell him off when Potter abruptly took him into his arms and kissed him. It was a disconcerting contrast—Potter’s arms were wrapped around him, gently holding him, and yet he kissed him angrily, ferociously, although Draco had no idea what he had done to upset him. That sense of panic, of dread, was still weighing him down, and so he relented, incapable of doing much more than groan into Potter’s mouth.

“What are you—what are you angry about?” Draco asked, breathless, as Potter suddenly stopped kissing him. Potter leaned his forehead against Draco’s, searching his eyes—though for what, Draco couldn’t say.

“You.”

“Me?” he asked, affronted. He tried his best to seem indignant, but it was difficult when Potter was staring at him so intently. “What the hell have I done?”

“Can’t get you out of my head,” Potter muttered, eyes flicking down to Draco’s mouth. He lifted a hand and dragged his thumb roughly across Draco’s bottom lip.

He let out a shaky breath. “Well, that’s not my fault, is it?” he asked weakly. Potter drew him in for another kiss, softer now. He coaxed open Draco’s mouth, dragging their tongues together. Draco couldn’t help it—he sighed again. This wasn’t like him at all. Usually he was quite reserved, making as little noise as possible, but he couldn’t stop himself. He ran his hands up and down Potter’s back, reveling in the feel of his taut muscles. By now, he had to admit to himself that he very much liked Potter’s toned back, his arms, his broad shoulders.

Potter was pushing him back onto what Draco assumed was his bed. It was made more neatly than Draco would have expected, scarlet sheets tucked tightly into the sides. As Draco’s knees hit the mattress, he fell back. He tried to pull Potter down with him, but instead Potter pushed him down and climbed over him. He straddled Draco’s lap, looking down at him, and Draco’s heart leapt as Potter suddenly took his hands in his. He was mortified—what was he, a first year?—but he squeezed back as Potter held his hands tightly. From the open window, the sounds of the cheering crowd drifted in.

“You…” Potter trailed off, assessing Draco in a way that made him feel unbelievably exposed. After a moment, he resumed: “You need to stop doing this to me.” Draco said nothing; he didn’t trust himself to speak. “Why did you leave the match?”

“What does it matter?”

“I was watching you. Something happened. You got all…upset. I could tell.” Potter reached out and traced a finger down Draco’s chest. When he stayed stubbornly silent, Potter added, “And then when I caught up with you…you looked the way I felt. Like…like you were so anxious you could barely breathe.”

“You looked fine to me.”

Potter smirked. “Watching me, were you?”

Draco looked away, annoyed. Potter leaned down and pressed his lips against Draco’s neck. He whispered into his ear, “I saw you. Saw every time you looked my way.”

“And you looked fine,” Draco snapped. “Smiling and clapping and cheering Gryffindor on.”

“’Cause I kept looking over at you,” he muttered. “Kept thinking of you. Kept thinking of what I want to do to you.”

“You’re so vulgar, Potter,” he hissed.

Potter sat back up, laughing. “Yeah? You definitely don’t want to know what I’ve been thinking about, then.”

Of course, he most definitely _did_ , but he wasn’t so far gone yet that he would degrade himself by asking. And anyway, there was no need, because Potter continued: “You don’t know how often I lay here thinking about you.”

“Wanking while thinking about me, are you, Potter?”

“Yeah.” He smiled ruefully. “I can’t help myself. It’s like no matter what I do, I keep thinking about your cock in my mouth. How you tasted. Your face when you came. God, your face.” Potter was rocking against him, still holding his hands, and Draco wanted desperately to look away—in spite of himself, he felt shy under Potter’s intense stare. As Potter started to unbutton his shirt, he lay still, not daring to breathe. His shirt came off easily, as did his trousers and pants. He reached for Potter’s zip, frustrated that once again he was clothed, but Potter took his hands and pinned them above his head.

“Why?” Draco asked, scowling.

Potter grinned but said nothing. He leaned forward and pressed a chaste kiss to his lips before trailing his mouth along Draco’s neck. Draco, already worked up, shuddered as Potter’s tongue traced the ridges of his collarbone. He moaned, urging Potter to hurry up and make his way down to his cock, but Potter merely laughed, swatting his hands away as he took his time kissing down Draco’s chest. He sucked, hard, on a nipple. Draco settled for reaching under Potter’s jumper, savouring the feel of his warm, smooth skin. He feathered his fingers up and down Potter’s back, just barely touching him, and so he was surprised when Potter let out a low groan in response. He could feel through Potter’s jeans that he was hard, and it was maddening, having him _right there_ and yet obstructed by several layers of clothes. He wanted to see Potter, see all of him, more desperately than ever. But before he could complain again, Potter was licking down his stomach, shifting so that he sat on Draco’s legs. Draco trailed his hands back to Potter’s hair, tugging whenever he did something he liked: dipped his tongue across the contours of his hips, rubbed his hands along his thighs, sucked hard on the space just below his navel.

“There’s no way you haven’t done this before,” he gasped. The words spilled out of his mouth before he could think twice.

Potter’s eyes were closed. Draco saw him smile faintly. “Haven’t. Just thought a lot about it. All the ways I’ve wanted to touch you.”

“Yeah?” he asked breathlessly. God, that was hot—the thought of Potter here, in this bed, thinking of him.

“Yeah.” Potter came up again to kiss him softly.

Draco rocked against him, Potter's jumper dragging against his cock. The pressure wasn’t nearly enough, and he was starting to whine, desperate for some kind of contact. Potter smirked viciously and, in response, sat back up. Exasperated, Draco growled, and he tried again to pull off Potter’s jeans. All at once, Potter was gripping his hands above his head, and this time he frowned down at him sternly.

“You,” he said, “need to behave.”

Fuck. Draco stopped his protests, but only because he felt as though the wind had been knocked out of him. He should have been furious that Potter would dare order him around, dare admonish him like that, but something in him purred at the strict look on Potter’s face.

“Be good,” Potter warned. And with that, he slid back down to his earlier spot on Draco’s legs. He was mortified when he realized that his cock was already wet, but Potter smiled wickedly and took him in hand. His grip was rough as he stroked, watching Draco’s face intently. Draco didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of seeing his reactions, and so he turned away, bringing his arms up to partially cover his face. At once, Potter reached up and pulled his arms away, his other hand still working Draco’s cock. Draco keened at that, oddly taken by the thought that Potter wanted so badly to see him. Apparently pleased, Potter leaned down and dragged his tongue from the base of Draco’s cock up to the head. The sight was as lewd as anything Draco could imagine. Potter continued to lap at his cock, occasionally swiping his thumb over the slit. Only once or twice did he take it entirely in his mouth—though Draco tried to push his head down, Potter would only laugh and pull away, returning to lick along the sides. It was maddening.

“Potter,” he growled. “Quit fucking around.”

Potter smirked but said nothing. Grasping the base of his cock, he smoothed his lips along the head, kissing and sucking lightly. He suddenly hit a spot that caused Draco to gasp and tighten his grip in Potter’s hair.

"Oh--fuck."

Potter closed his eyes and continued to suck at that one spot, moaning deep in his throat when Draco rolled his hips forward. It was incredibly frustrating, and he still needed more fiction, but Potter’s lips felt _so good_. He dropped his head back onto the mattress and groaned loudly, not caring how desperate he sounded, when Potter rubbed Draco's wet slit with his thumb. Just as he started to thrust into Potter’s hand, feeling himself lose control, Potter suddenly pulled away, laughing openly at Draco’s wail of frustration. He gripped the base of Draco’s cock tightly and waited for him to settle. Draco ran his fingers through his hair, telling himself to _calm down._ As the tight heat in his stomach ebbed away, Potter started up again, licking his shaft lightly. This time, when Potter started to suck at that familiar spot, Draco twisted his hands in the sheets, raising his hips up to meet him. All too quickly, Potter stopped again, absently tracing a finger on Draco’s thigh as he waited for him to relax. And then back again: his swollen lips brushing up and down Draco’s cock, kissing his inner thighs, dragging pre-cum across the tip.

“Potter,” Draco whined as he pulled back yet again. He was close—God, he was so close. He could feel his orgasm building in the pit of his stomach. Potter shifted so that he was sitting on his lap. Draco tried to rut against him, absolutely hating himself for being so pathetic. He breathed harshly as Potter surveyed him. He knew he must be an absolute mess: hair disheveled from running his fingers through it countless times, cheeks red, chest rising and falling as he tried to steady his breathing. His heart gave an almost painful squeeze when Potter muttered, “So pretty like this.” He should have hated it, should have objected at the very thought of being described as “pretty,” of all things, but instead he preened under Potter’s attention.

“Yeah?” he asked hoarsely.

“Mmm.” Potter ran his hands down his stomach. “Fuck, look at you…and being so good for me.”

He wanted to tell Potter that he looked incredible, too: somewhere along the line he had taken his glasses off, allowing Draco to see his bright green eyes clearly. His face was flushed, and his lips were slick and red. He could see the bulge in Potter’s jeans, and he felt mad with the need to touch him. But Potter, as though reading his thoughts, made his way back down to Draco’s cock. He trailed his fingers up and down, up and down, with just enough pressure to send shivers through him.

“I’m so close,” he gasped.

“Say ‘please,’ then.”

“What? No.” Draco set his jaw stubbornly.

Potter suddenly took his entire cock in his mouth. Having been teased with feather light touches and kisses for so long, Draco cried out, cursing Potter when he sucked twice and then pulled away _again_. He went back to circling his thumb around the tip.

“Go on.”

“No.”

Potter was rubbing his fingers on that spot again, keeping him just on the edge. “I want to hear you ask.” Rubbing his entire palm over the head, he added, “And then I want to see your face as you come in my mouth. Want to taste you so bad.”

“Please,” he said, giving in to Potter, his hands, his voice, his eyes. “Please, Potter. Make me come. I want to, need to.”

Potter took his cock completely in his mouth, down to the base. Draco watched, speechless, as Potter sucked him off, moaning low in his throat. He was going to come. He was going to come. He meant to warn Potter, but he couldn’t even get the words out. His cock stiffened, there was a heartbeat where he couldn’t even move, and then finally he came. He gave a strangled cry as all of the tension seeped out of him. He poured himself into Potter’s mouth, who took it all. He brought Draco through his orgasm, gently sucking until Draco was so sensitive that it bordered on painful. Finally, Potter stopped and came to lay next to him. He stiffened for a moment as Potter nuzzled against him, and he thought of complaining, but he decided that he was too tired to bother. Besides, Draco's hands were still itching to feel him, and so he contented himself with lazily wrapping an arm around him. They stayed like that for quite some time, listening to each other breathe, Draco focusing on the circles Potter was drawing on his back as he tried to regain his breath. He felt weightless, laying there with Potter, basking in the glow of his orgasm.

Suddenly, Potter sat up, frowning. “Does it seem quiet to you?”

Draco stopped to listen. He was right—it _was_ eerily silent in the room. Mortified, he leapt up. “The bloody match,” he hissed. He strode over to the window, and groaned as he saw the students making their way to the castle. “Everyone’s coming back. For fuck’s sake.”

Potter sniggered as Draco dressed himself. “Want your dormmates to see me like this?” he snapped. Potter abruptly stopped laughing. “Pass me my shirt, would you?”

Potter reached down, snagged his shirt, and threw it to him. “What are you doing later?”

“What? I don’t know. Bloody Potions essay, probably.” He was buttoning up his shirt as fast as he could.

“Let’s go and fly around the pitch together.”

Draco paused for a moment, staring at Potter, and then carried on with his buttons. “You don’t think people will find it a bit odd, us flying together?”

Potter shifted on the bed. “Maybe. But it doesn’t matter, does it?”

“Of course it matters,” Draco said, exasperated. “People are already weird enough around me. Half of them hate me, and the other half are terrified of me, as far as I can tell.”

“You know I’d be happy to tell them all to piss off.”

“Oh, go on, Potter, I don’t need you being my bloody hero.” He tucked in his shirt and smoothed out the wrinkles. “Am I alright?”

Potter grinned. “Your hair looks like you’ve just been shagged.”

“Fantastic,” he muttered, trying to flatten the wayward strands as best he could. “Right, I need to go.” He suddenly felt awkward—after what they had just done, would it be rude to walk out like nothing had happened?

Potter waved him away. “Go, go. Don’t want anyone to see you.”

Draco could have sworn there was a bitter hint to Potter’s voice, but he didn’t have time to ask about it. He flew out the door, bound down the stairs, and threw himself out of the portrait hole. Mercifully, the corridor was empty. He all but ran down the labyrinth of stairs. At first, he planned to head for the Slytherin common room, but that was likely where the other eighth-year Slytherins would go, and he had no interest in being interrogated by them. Instead, Draco made his way to the Owlery. As he traipsed through Hogwarts, the sounds of students talking and laughing slowly filling the air, he thought back on what he and Potter had just done. The details were hazy. He felt as though the events of the last hour had been so momentous, so beyond what he had ever imagined, that his mind was still working to process everything. And, as he walked further and further away from the Gryffindor common room, his anxiety returned with a vengeance.

Draco quickly spotted Callidus up in the rafters: he dwarfed the barn owls around him. As he sat in one of the windows, Callidus fluttered down to perch closer to him.

“Didn’t bring any treats, I’m afraid,” he said. He reached out and stroked through his soft plumage. “Must be nice, being an owl. I suppose you haven’t got much on your mind most of the time.”

Callidus eyed him reproachfully.

“Oh, you know what I mean. You haven’t got to worry about grades, or weird blokes trying to kiss you wherever you go, or your parents…you probably don’t even know your parents, do you?” He gazed out the window. From here, he could see the Gryffindor team shuffling up the path to the castle. They were rather subdued. Perhaps Slytherin had won. He should have been happy, but he knew the others would probably be up all night celebrating, and the very thought exhausted him. Maybe he could spend the night in the Owlery…or slip out to the grounds once everyone had retreated to the dungeons. For now, he was content to sit with Callidus, surveying the grounds as the last few students trickled indoors. It was nearly lunchtime; usually after a Quidditch match there was quite a spread. But he had very little appetite.

This whole thing with Potter was going too far. It still didn’t feel entirely real to him. If he woke up tomorrow and found out it had all been a dream, he wouldn’t be surprised. And if it was real, well…it was dangerous. If his parents had any idea what he was up to, they would be furious. Of all the people at Hogwarts, he had chosen Potter to shag. And yet…they weren’t _really_ shagging, were they? Potter refused to be touched, and Draco couldn’t understand why. He might have thought it was because of his Mark—which Draco had spent all summer trying to remove, to no avail—but Potter hadn’t seemed bothered by it at all. It was possible that this was all some sick way of controlling him, of making him weak, but it was a strange way to go about things.

Draco was so lost in thought that his fingers had strayed too close to Callidus’ eye; he nipped angrily. “Ouch! Sorry, sorry.” He quickly pulled his hand back. “Sorry…wasn’t paying attention.” The sharp pain in his hand brought him back to reality. Peering around the Owlery, he remembered that he still hadn’t written to his mother yet. Guilt lurching in his chest, he dug through his satchel until he found a spare bit of parchment, his inkpot, and a quill. As he pulled everything out, he noticed both his old wand and the small velvet pouch at the bottom of the bag. At the sight, his anxiety flared. Reminding himself to _breathe_ , he sat cross-legged, set the inkpot to rest precariously on the window ledge, and spread out the parchment on his knee. The blank page was daunting. Damn it, he was writing to his mother. It should be easy. There had been a time when they were best friends. Sitting back, watching as Callidus groomed himself, he clearly recalled the summer when he had turned eleven, right before he left for Hogwarts. There had been a huge row between his parents—his father had been insisting for years that he go to Durmstrang, but his mother absolutely refused to send him so far away. Looking back, Draco wondered whether she had also resisted on the grounds that Durmstrang took a much different approach to the Dark Arts than did Hogwarts. And so his parents had fought for most of the year leading up to his enrollment, and eventually, his mother had prevailed. Despite his parents' bickering, that summer had been a wonderful one. His father had mostly been away on business—to Peru or Chile, he couldn’t remember anymore—and so it had only been the two of them. He dipped his quill into the inkpot, and wrote:

_Mother_

_Do you remember the summer I turned eleven, when we decided to have a dinner party for just us? We made sure to taste something from every country we had visited over the last year—coq au vin, burrata, nasi lemak, and, I think, tiramisu for dessert. Such a mishmash...Father would have hated it. I_ _t was only the two of us, but you would never know it, because we laughed and talked so loudly that the dining hall felt full. Do you remember how you had every candle lit to make it as bright and cozy as possible? And then afterwards, you enchanted the piano and we danced. I was still shorter than you then. We talked about Hogwarts, about Slytherin, about how you met Father, about the night you were caught with him by the Great Lake. I forget now which professor spotted you. And you told me about the hidden corridors to look out for, and the trick steps to avoid, and which subjects were easiest and hardest. You cried a lot, because I was going to leave soon, but you were happy, and I was happy, too. Even though I was going to miss you, I was so happy that night, happy that whole summer, to be spending the summer with you. And do you remember that time in August when we tried to rearrange the sitting room, and you bought a pair of armchairs without realizing that they tickled whoever sat on them? I begged you to keep them and you indulged me for a bit, but then eventually they had to go. I think the beige ones you bought instead are still there. I can't recall. It’s funny how I remember so clearly your face when you realized what was wrong with the armchairs—annoyed, but trying not to laugh—but I can hardly remember what the Manor looks like anymore. We were so happy, though, weren’t we? It’s strange now to think how happy we were._

Before he could change his mind, Draco signed the letter and called Callidus. Still ruffled, he hopped over and held out his leg, though he wouldn’t look Draco’s way. He was too well-trained to refuse him, but he showed his displeasure with the sharp click he gave before taking off. Well, that was done. Draco suddenly remembered that the Ministry was reading his parents’ mail, and the thought made him smile. Which poor Ministry official would be assigned to read that letter? And what would they make of it? Perhaps they would think it was some strange code. Good, let them stew over it.

Stiff from sitting on the stone ledge for so long, Draco decided to head outside. Most students were in the Great Hall having lunch, allowing him to slip out to the grounds undetected. It had warmed up considerably. Above him, the sky was clear. He spent the rest of the day by the lake, watching as the Giant Squid spread its tentacles lazily through the water. He sat there and thought about his mother, his first friend, and perhaps his only real friend, though that felt rather sad to admit. He thought of her and he wondered what she thought of him.


	15. xv.

November eighteenth, the day of his father’s next hearing, loomed on the horizon. Draco sent his father a brief note asking if he wanted him to attend, but he heard nothing back. While there were supposed to be at least two more hearings, according to the papers the Wizengamot was trying to push everything forward as quickly as they could. Apparently, the wizarding world was ready to put everything involving the Dark Lord behind them, and that included punishing anyone deemed culpable. Nott’s father’s trial had begun, and Draco noticed that he was paler than usual lately, with an odd, pinched look to his face. If he had been crueler, he might have taken up reading excerpts from the _Prophet_ regarding Mr. Nott’s hearings, but he couldn’t be bothered. Instead, they sat in misery together at breakfast as the others rifled through the paper, talking loudly about the ongoing trials.

In Transfiguration, he sat next to Greg, who he only ever saw at meals and in class anymore. They were supposed to be working together on turning a common lizard into an iguana, though they weren’t having much luck. Draco leaned forward, squinting at it, and said, “It looks a bit bigger, doesn’t it?” Goyle gave a noncommittal grunt.

They looked up as Delacour approached them, tutting. “Monsieur Malfoy, Monsieur Goyle, surely I can expect better? ‘Ave you been practicing your wandwork?” When they both nodded, she gestured at their lizard. “Go on. Show me.” She stepped aside and clasped her hands neatly as she waited. Annoyed, Draco swiped his wand through the air: “ _Lacerfors._ ” The lizard looked up at him irritably, but otherwise nothing happened.

“Non, c’est pas bien,” Delacour said at once. “Why are you so distracted today?”

“I don’t know, Professor,” he said irritably.

“Tell me. Why is it you cannot focus? I have seen you do much more complicated magic than zis.”

Greg was staring at the table in front of them as Draco took a deep, steadying breath. “I’m fine,” he gritted out. Why wouldn’t she leave him alone?

She eyed him skeptically, but eventually she moved on to the next pair. “For fuck’s sake,” Draco muttered. “Why is everyone always on my case?” Greg shrugged. “And you,” Draco said, rounding on him in his frustration. “Where the hell have you been the past two months?”

Goyle said nothing. Instantly he felt terrible. Deflating as his anger seeped away, he murmured, “Sorry, forget it.” They worked in silence, each taking turns attempting to transfigure the lizard, although by now it was a lost cause.

Slumping back, Draco read over his notes again when Greg suddenly said, “I know what you’re doing with Potter.”

Draco shot up as if electrified, dropping his textbook. At the commotion, several students looked back. Delacour frowned at them as Draco reached down to pick up his book. When she finally turned away, he hissed, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Goyle was silent for so long that Draco wondered whether he had heard him correctly. Finally, as Delacour started to dismiss them, he said quietly, “Be careful.”

Too panicked to try to lie, Draco asked, “How did you know?”

Greg shrugged. “Walked into the dorm on Saturday. Didn’t think anyone would be there.”

Draco swore under his breath. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

“You looked busy.”

He felt himself turning red. Packing up his things, he waited until Pansy and Blaise had left the classroom before saying, “You can’t tell anyone, Greg. I mean it.”

“I won’t.”

“Greg, I’m being serious.” He reached forward and grasped his arm. “Please. I’ll do anything.”

Greg shrugged him off. “Just be careful.” With that, he shuffled out of the room, leaving Draco in a state of pure terror. He had no idea if he could trust Greg or not. God, how could he have been so stupid? This was all a mistake. If they got caught, if people found out he was shagging Harry Potter, they would hate him more than they already did. He would be accused of cursing Potter, of threatening him, of feeding him a Love Potion. His father’s position would become even more precarious. As these thoughts raced through his mind, he almost didn’t hear Delacour when she called his name. Standing in the doorway, she asked him again, “Monsieur Malfoy? Are you coming?”

“Yes. Sorry.” He checked his satchel one more time to make sure that the velvet pouch was still there—by now, it was a habit he couldn’t shake—before hastily passing by her and making his way to the entrance hall. This had to stop. He needed to avoid Potter and just get through this year so that he could finally be free of this place and the dangers that constantly seemed to plague him. He wished, not for the first time, that he could just be normal, just a regular Hogwarts student who had a nice girlfriend that he brought to meet his nice, normal parents just like everyone else. A normal student whose father wasn’t constantly in the papers. Since September, he had listened to the others go on about their internships, and he longed for their problems: Pansy and Blaise complained that Slughorn spent most of the time bragging about famous witches and wizards he had met, while Daphne bemoaned the complicated work Vector set her. They were all planning for their futures, using their internships as a means of making connections and honing skills that would serve them in their careers. Meanwhile, he was saddled with Potter, and they were apparently only capable of vacillating between trying to kill each other and trying to snog each other. He had spent countless nights wondering what it was like to go to bed and be kept up by mundane worries like an upcoming quiz or an overdue paper.

The next day at breakfast, he received a reply from his mother. She had scrawled a few lines at the bottom of his letter:

_Dessert was goxua. We stayed with your cousins by the Bay of Biscay that year._

_I remember everything. Every single moment._

***

Draco had meant to avoid Potter, he really had, but as usual his plan went horribly awry. Potter had started to coincidentally run into him all over the castle—in the loo, in a deserted corridor in the dungeons after Potions, in an empty classroom on the fourth floor. And they still continued to meet for their Tuesday lessons, though by now they didn’t spend much time practicing. During their Thursday study sessions, Draco tried to keep his distance from Potter, lest anyone suspect something. It didn’t help that Potter was constantly looking his way, grinning whenever their eyes met, watching Draco as he instructed the students. On one such occasion, Draco pretended not to see Potter smiling at him and was about to head over to a pair of helpless Hufflepuff boys when he suddenly heard shouting. He groaned as he recognized Pritchard’s voice.

A fight had broken out between the Slytherins and Gryffindors, though he couldn’t quite follow what had happened—the girl Weasley was accusing Pritchard of hexing her instead of his partner. Things had been tense between the two houses since the last Quidditch game: apparently, Harper had just narrowly caught the Snitch before Weasley could snatch it. All at once, everyone seemed to be yelling, and several Gryffindors and Slytherins were drawing out their wands.

“Right, that’s enough,” Potter called over the din. “Ginny, put your wand away.”

“He tried to hex me!” she cried.

“I was aiming for Malcolm! I must’ve missed!”

“He was right in front of you!” Ron Weasley roared. Great.

Draco strode towards Pritchard and pulled him away roughly. Ignoring his indignant yelp, he hissed into his ear, “Put your wand away, you idiot.”

Pritchard snarled and ripped his shoulder from Draco’s grasp. “She’s mad! I’ve done nothing wrong! Ask Baddock!”

“Just put your wand away and relax.”

“I didn’t do anything! They’re trying to frame me!” Pritchard’s face was red and screwed up in anger.

The Gryffindors had started yelling again, and the sound was driving Draco mad. He needed quiet. It was too loud, much too loud, their shouts echoing in the Great Hall and reminding him of the battle and the way he had kept his ears tuned to every shriek, trying to tell them apart, listening carefully in case it was someone he knew who had fallen—his father, his mother…

Pritchard was saying something he couldn’t hear. Potter looked over at Draco, caught sight of his face, and then stepped between the Slytherins and Gryffindors angrily. “You’re all being childish,” he shouted. “I’m tired of this. Get back into your pairs. Gryffindors, go down to the end of the line, next to Ravenclaw. Now.”

There was much grumbling among the Gryffindors, but Granger followed Potter’s lead and directed them towards the opposite end of the hall. Eventually, they relented, both Weasleys shooting daggers at Pritchard as they trudged by.

“I’m telling the truth,” Pritchard said flatly, turning to Draco. “Whatever she says, that’s not how it happened.”

“I don’t give a fuck what happened. Stay out of trouble from now on.”

“You don’t believe me?” he snapped. “You’re siding with them?”

“I’m not siding with anyone. I just want this stupidity to stop. Get back to work, and this time, aim straight.”

“I can’t believe you’re taking their side,” Pritchard said coldly. “Everyone was right about you.”

Draco couldn’t be bothered to ask what he meant—he was uncomfortably aware of everyone’s eyes on them. “Back to work,” he repeated before walking away. Slowly, the students resumed their drills, and the room eventually filled with the sounds of hexes being flung and Shields being cast. Draco stood off to the side, watching them as he tried to force his features into a look of detached boredom. He knew Potter was staring at him, but he stubbornly looked away, focusing instead on Abbott as she broke through Goldstein’s Shield.

As the lesson finally ended, the atmosphere was tense. Draco was packing up his things when he noticed Proudfoot hovering by the door, arms crossed. He wondered how long he had been there. Without saying goodbye to anyone, he slipped past Proudfoot, crossed the entrance hall, and went straight out the double doors, ignoring Pansy as she called for him. It was bitterly cold out, but he refused to cast a Warming Charm, preferring to punish himself with the brutal whip of the wind. He stalked along the winding path to the lake, shoving his hands into his pockets. The cold was like a strange sort of atonement, though for what, he couldn’t say.

The shouting had left him feeling numb. He couldn’t stand fighting—the chaos was overwhelming, and he hated the sense that things were spiraling out of control. He thought himself rather foolish, being so upset over petty arguments between people he didn’t really give a damn about to begin with. But the crackle of tension as people started pulling out their wands, threatening to hex each other, brought back painful memories that he would prefer not to revisit. There had been plenty of arguments between the Death Eaters, who rarely got along and were constantly trying to curry favour with the Dark Lord at each others’ expense. He couldn’t count the number of times fights had broken out in the Manor, all while his parents tried to subdue everyone without becoming targets themselves. Several priceless pieces of art, including his mother’s beloved portrait of his grandmother, had been destroyed, while an ancient wardrobe passed down through generations had been blown to pieces during one memorable encounter between Yaxley and the Carrows.

Draco settled into his usual spot by the lake. The water was choppy, the waves dark and ominous under the low orb of the moon. He sat back, his palms quickly going numb from the ice-cold ground. The grass was crisp with frost; everyone swore it was finally going to snow any day now. Draco wasn’t surprised when he heard footsteps coming up the path. He looked over and was about to greet Potter, when instead he saw Proudfoot walking towards him.

“Bit cold to be out, isn’t it?” Proudfoot called. He was wearing a thick cloak lined with fur. His curly hair was wilder than ever. Draco sat there, shocked, as Proudfoot eased down next to him, groaning as one of his knees cracked. “Not as young as I used to be, I’m afraid. Decades of Auror work will do that to you.”

Draco wasn’t sure what to say, so he brought his knees up his chest and stared out at the lake.

“No Warming Charm?” Proudfoot asked lightly.

“I’m fine, sir.”

“I see.” He gave a long sigh and said, “Well, I thought I might find you out here. It seems you’re always wandering the grounds. Is that how you used to spend your time before? In previous years?”

“Not really, no.”

He hummed softly to himself. “You have the right idea. It can be stuffy in the castle. I have to admit, I’d become accustomed to a solitary life before all this…I’m not used to rooms full of people and loud conversation at every meal, but anyway…” Proudfoot trailed off. After a while, he pulled a small jar out from under his cloak; a bluebell flame was dancing within. “Rather useful spell, this. You can keep the flame closer to your body and it’s less cumbersome.” He rolled the jar around in his hands, and they both watched as the flames licked the sides. After a moment, Proudfoot said, “I caught the tail-end of what happened during your study group tonight.”

“I had nothing to do with that,” he said quickly. “I barely even know Pritchard, and I was at the other end of the room.”

Proudfoot held up his hand. “I’m not accusing you of anything, Mr. Malfoy.”

“I have no idea who started it, sir, or who was telling the truth.”

“Does it really matter? It’s done now. Everyone’s fine. What good does it do us to sort out who’s at fault and who isn’t?” Proudfoot tucked the jar back under his cloak, and then said, “No, after that little spat, I’m far more concerned with you.”

“Me, sir?” He frowned.

“You didn’t look too pleased.”

“I was annoyed. That’s all.”

“You looked terrified. Like you were about to be sick. I thought you were going to keel over. You’re still pale.”

“I thought…I didn’t know…” He had no idea what to say, or what Proudfoot expected of him.

“From what the other faculty have told me, you’ve been very quiet this year. Not spending much time with your usual gang, or stirring up trouble as you used to. How did Professor Flitwick put it? ‘It’s as though Mr. Malfoy has returned to us this year as a ghost of himself.’”

“I haven’t done anything wrong,” he said weakly.

Proudfoot chuckled. “Would you relax, boy? You’re not in any sort of trouble, and I’m in no mood to scold you. I’m only trying to understand.” While Draco kept his eyes trained on the lake, watching as the water lapped up violently on the cliffs in the distance, he felt Proudfoot staring at him. “So explain to me, then, everything you’ve been through. Help me understand.”

“I’m afraid it’s not very interesting, sir.”

“Oh, I disagree. I imagine it must have been very difficult, growing up the son of Lucius Malfoy. Interesting, but difficult. And yet you’ve chosen to come back to Hogwarts anyway, to finish out your studies…that was a very brave choice. And I'm glad to see you're still here.”

“I didn’t really have another option,” he said, still wondering what the point of this was. “As everyone loves to remind me, my family name means nothing anymore. Worse than nothing.”

“And what about your plans to travel? Still considering those?”

“I haven’t really thought about it,” he said.

“Well, I don’t want to repeat myself, so I’ll refrain from reminding you of how important it is to come up with a plan. And what if your father is sent to Azkaban, then? Will you stay in Britain, for your mother?”

He flinched at Proudfoot’s words. He had, of course, mulled over that very scenario countless times in his mind, but to have the possibility spoken aloud was painful.

“You have to forgive me,” the other man said quietly. “I’ve only ever known how to be blunt.”

“If my father goes to Azkaban…” Draco didn’t know how to continue.

“I’ve heard the rumours,” Proudfoot muttered. “I suppose you’ve heard as well. I really don’t think Shacklebolt will allow it…but one of the witches on the Wizengamot, she was Amelia Bones’ cousin…and you know what happened to her…nasty, nasty business…and so of course she’s out for blood. Plenty of them are, I imagine…lots of people are grieving.”

“And so my father’s the target for all their anger.”

“I don’t think it’ll go that far. Shacklebolt hates the dementors, everyone knows that. But if your father’s lawyers have any other tricks up their sleeves, now would be the time to use them.” He hesitated, and then said, “Do you think they have any other arguments? Or evidence?”

“I have no idea, sir. Like usual, my father’s kept me in the dark,” he said bitterly. “Although I would imagine if they had any other options, they would have done something by now. I’ve only met my father’s lawyers a few times, they—” Draco froze. Slowly, he turned to look at Proudfoot properly. It had only just occurred to him that the man had been an Auror, that he had worked at the Ministry for years. They barely knew one another. What if Proudfoot was trying to get information from him for the Wizengamot? He thought back frantically, trying to remember what he had just said, but he was too panicked to think clearly.

If Proudfoot had noticed his discomfort, he didn’t say. Instead, he hummed thoughtfully, rubbing his unshaven face. “This next hearing will be telling. Everyone will speak their piece, and then the Wizengamot will deliberate. The verdict is supposed to be announced sometime in February. And of course, some of the other trials have started, too. I get the sense that they want to wrap this up quickly.”

They sat in silence, Draco cursing himself for being so stupid. Proudfoot looked off into the distance, apparently unbothered. Finally, he pushed himself off the cold ground. “I’m headed back inside. From what little I know of your father, Mr. Malfoy, he’s quite resourceful—I wouldn’t count him out just yet. In the meantime, you need to worry about yourself. Keep up your grades. Make an effort with these study groups—if you can save your reputation a bit, it’ll help you down the line. They’re only your classmates now, but someday they’ll be out there working, and it’s always good to be able to call in favours."

“Goodnight, sir,” Draco said stiffly. He waited until Proudfoot had ambled away before running his fingers through his hair and letting out a shaky sigh. He tried to think through everything he had just said, and whether any of it might further incriminate his father. He had always found it strange that Proudfoot had taken an interest in him, but all of the teachers at Hogwarts were a bit odd, anyway. He had always assumed Proudfoot had taken over mentoring him as some sort of favour to Slughorn after their meeting at the start of term. It was possible that Proudfoot had used McGonagall’s ridiculous internship scheme as an opportunity to get closer to him, to earn his trust in order to learn more about his father. He was kept in the dark regarding most of his father’s business, of course, but Proudfoot wasn’t likely to know that…

The pivotal question: whether or not to inform his parents. Draco didn’t want to add to his father’s worries, and in all likelihood he was just being paranoid. But still…if there was even the slightest chance that Proudfoot was working for the Ministry, or informing the Wizengamot, his father would want to know, wouldn’t he? In the past, his father had rarely appreciated his insights; he generally preferred that Draco do what he was told without meddling. Once again, he found himself desperate for someone he could trust to guide him, someone who had his best interests at heart. There had been Severus, of course, but—no, too painful, still too painful to think about. Looking out at the lake, he wondered, as he so often did, if everyone else had such a complicated relationship with their parents…did other people have to constantly ask themselves whether they should be honest with their parents, and to what extent? Of course, it could be worst...he could have parents who didn’t care at all…or no parents, like Potter…

Potter. Somehow everything always came back to him. That was true enough in the wizarding world, where the struggle against the Dark Lord had revolved around him. And now, although Draco hated himself for it, Potter had become a central figure in his own life. He fell asleep thinking of him. Worse still, he checked every corridor he walked through, looking to see if Potter was there; at meals, he would glance over at the Gryffindor table to see if Potter was looking at him. Those few times when their eyes connected, he would scowl and go back his food, secretly asking himself what it all meant and where they were supposed to go from here. During the study groups they led, he reminded himself over and over to focus on the students and their miserable attempts at performing nonverbal magic, but instead he kept looking over at Potter, taking him in as he gently corrected someone’s form or reassured them that they were capable of transfiguring a parrot into a tea cozy. He felt an odd sort of glee at the fact that he knew things about Potter that no one else did: his sighs, his touch, the look on his face right after they kissed. He should have been mortified, and sometimes he was, but other times he decided that after everything he had been through, he was permitted to pine after someone. Even if it _was_ Potter.


	16. xvi.

The Saturday before his father’s next hearing, Draco allowed Pansy to drag him to Hogsmeade again. In truth, he was grateful for the distraction. All of the eighth years had agreed to meet at the Three Broomsticks for a drink. The Slytherins left Hogwarts together, stopping briefly at Honeydukes to stock up on sweets.

“We’re not children anymore,” Draco said sourly as Pansy filled a sack with chattering Ice Mice.

“And _you_ take yourself too seriously,” she said. Peeking into the bag, she must have been satisfied, because she tied it off and thrust it into his arms. “Here. Hold this. I’ve been dying for some fudge.”

“Your parents send you sweets all the time!”

“Oh, leave me alone. This year has been stressful. You won’t believe the amount of work Slughorn’s set me. Though actually,” she hesitated, looking at him bashfully, and then said, “it’s been alright. I’ve always known I liked Potions well enough, but I’m really starting to get a knack for it. You know Slughorn has us restocking his supply of Wolfsbane Potion? And I’m actually managing!” Looking over Draco’s shoulder, she added in a low voice, “Of course, Blaise thinks it’s all thanks to him…I can’t believe how arrogant he’s gotten…”

Draco snorted. “I can.”

"Well, anyway, Slughorn says there’s all kinds of careers I could take up. I’m supposed to be meeting with him next week to discuss it. Brewing remedies for St. Mungo’s, for example. Wouldn’t that be brilliant? And well-paid, don’t you think?”

“I’d imagine so.” He wrinkled his nose as Pansy shoved several packages of fudge into his hands.

“I know I didn’t have the grades to sit my Potions N.E.W.T.,” she went on, “but he said he might have a few connections…Slughorn of all people should be able to manage something, right?”

Daphne suddenly appeared at his side, clutching a Chocolate Frog. “Oh, go on, Draco, get something for yourself.”

“Draco’s too mature for sweets,” said Pansy.

“I am not. I just don’t fancy spending the next two weeks watching you bounce off the walls as you consume your weight in sugar.”

Pansy opened her mouth to argue, but Daphne cut her off. “Let’s pay for this lot, then. It’s nearly ten.”

They left Honeydukes as a group, happily comparing their purchases—Millicent, it seemed, had bought the store’s entire stock of Every Flavoured Beans. She dared Nott to try a terrible-looking yellow one, and they laughed as he spluttered and retched: vomit flavoured. Walking next to Draco, Daphne pried open her single Chocolate Frog. As she nibbled on it, she turned the card in her hand, and then offered it to Draco.

“Harry Potter,” she said. “I’ve already got him. Want it?”

“I’m alright.”

“But you used to have a massive collection, Draco!” said Nott. “I reckon you must have just about every card. Of course, now there’s all sorts of new ones…I got Longbottom last week…wanted to toss it in the bin, but then I wouldn’t have the full set…”

“Here, you have it. You can start collecting them again!” Daphne said brightly, ignoring his scowl as she slipped the card into his hand.

As they turned down the lane, Draco studied the moving photograph. Potter’s hair was as unruly as ever, and his discomfort at having his picture taken was evident. For a moment, their eyes met, and Draco blinked in surprised as Potter winked at him. Embarrassed, he hastily shoved the card into his pocket. Bloody thing. Fortunately, nobody had noticed, as they were discussing loudly whether a bright green bean would be olive or bogey flavoured. Finally, Daphne agreed to nibble the end of it, and she announced happily: “Sprouts!”

The Three Broomsticks was as busy as ever. The eighth years had once again pushed several tables together, taking up most of the space in the pub. This time, the house divisions weren’t as clear: everyone was scattered haphazardly around the table, mingling together. Draco had felt safer last time, with the lines between houses mostly intact, allowing the Slytherins to huddle together on one side of the table. Daphne, of course, had none of these reservations, bounding over to Li and the Patil twins and pulling up a chair. Millicent and Pansy went to go sit with Abbott, Corner, and Finch-Fletchley, who were finishing up a pitcher to themselves. Draco made to follow Zabini and Nott as they slid towards the back of the room when suddenly a hand gripped his.

“Come sit with me,” Potter muttered into his ear. A shiver ran down his back. Potter was standing right behind him, a pitcher in one hand; he had evidently just come back from the bar. Before Draco could protest, he dragged him to the head of the table. Too startled to argue, he sat down next to Potter. He looked around wildly for Zabini and Nott—they had settled in-between Macmillan and Bones and were staring at him. Granger and Weasley were stiff as Draco pulled his chair closer to the table, but they said nothing. No doubt that was Potter’s doing. If the other students had noticed this unusual turn of events, nobody commented: they were all immersed in their own conversations, most of them revolving around the upcoming match between Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff.

“Ron thinks Ravenclaw have got the best odds,” Granger said nervously. Her attempt at soothing Weasley, who was glaring at him suspiciously, was transparent.

Potter, looking at her gratefully, said, “Ron always counts Hufflepuff out. But I wouldn’t yet. Bring those glasses here, would you, Ron?”

Weasley complied and slid down several empty mugs. As Potter filled each one, they sat in silence, eyeing each other warily. Suddenly, Potter said, “Wait, Draco needs a glass. Come with me.”

 _Draco?_ Since when had he been Draco? Flummoxed, he followed Potter to the bar, grateful to get away from the tension at the table. The pub was so full that Madam Rosmerta hardly noticed Draco as Potter asked her for an empty glass. As they waited, Potter touched Draco’s elbow. “Ron and Hermione…they’re trying. I promise, they are.”

“Trying what? What have you told them?”

“Nothing. Only that we need to let all of this rivalry between houses go. It’s so stupid. Hermione agrees.” When Draco said nothing, he added, “Wasn’t the point of everything to move forward? I’m so sick of dividing everything by family, by blood, by house…aren’t you?”

“Potter,” he said lightly, “I think you’re drunk.”

“Harry,” was the reply.

“Since when are we on first name basis?” he asked.

“Dunno. Pick a date.” Potter—Harry, now, he supposed, damn him—thanked Madam Rosmerta as she finally found a spare moment to pass him a glass. As they wove their way through the crowd, he said in a low voice, “Maybe last Tuesday when we snogged so long during your free period that I almost missed Charms?”

It was as though his mouth had been jinxed—he didn’t seem capable of opening it. Sitting back down next to Harry, he watched mutely as he poured him a drink.

After a moment of silence, Granger tried again: “So, Malfoy—D-Draco—what do you think of Hufflepuff’s odds? Slytherin…Slytherin played very well against Gryffindor last match.” Weasley looked as though he had just swallowed a slug.

“Hufflepuff has a good Keeper in Cauldwell,” he said, sipping his drink. It took everything in him not to smirk at the look of outrage on Harry’s face.

“Rubbish,” Weasley said suddenly, as though he couldn’t help himself. “Ravenclaw’s Chasers will absolutely flatten Cauldwell.”

“I seem to remember you blocking them quite easily when Gryffindor played Ravenclaw last,” Draco said mildly.

Weasley stared at him from across the table, apparently at a loss.

"Yes, that’s right!” Granger said, encouraged. “You played very well against Ravenclaw, didn’t you, Ron?”

Weasley muttered something into his cup.

“Ron’s angry that we can’t join the team this year,” said Harry.

“You were one of the best Seekers Gryffindor ever had,” Weasley cried. His face was quite pink—Draco wondered how much he had drunk so far.

“Hear, hear!” called Finnigan from across the table, raising his firewhisky. Thomas and Longbottom joined in.

Harry laughed and shook his head in embarrassment. “Alright, alright.” Eyeing Draco, he said, “We need to play against each other sometime. Before the end of the school year.” When Draco said nothing, he added, “I need one more chance to catch the Snitch from right in front of you.”

Draco snorted. “Should you be so lucky.”

“You’ll play against me one more time, won’t you?”

Draco frowned. Why was Harry being so persistent? He took a sip of his beer, aware of Granger and Weasley’s curious eyes. Harry squeezed his knee tightly and said, “Before the end of the term. We’ll see who can catch the Snitch first. Alright?”

He rolled his eyes and sighed. “Yes, yes, for God’s sake. Have you always been this bossy?”

Harry smirked. “You know the answer to that.”

Draco nearly choked on his beer. Ignoring Harry’s grin, he suddenly became very interested in the wood grain of the table.

There were several conversations going on at once, and Draco had a hard time following them. He was only on his second beer, but his ears were buzzing, and he felt a not unpleasant warmth spreading through his chest. Harry, he noticed, refilled his drink without prompting whenever it was low. He was shocked out of his reverie when Goldstein turned to him and said, “You did quite well on the Transfiguration practical last week, didn’t you, Malfoy?”

“What? I—yes. It was—it was fine.”

“God, Delacour’s tough,” said Terry Boot, leaning towards him to be heard. “She watches everything like a hawk. But I thought her lesson at the study group was quite helpful, didn’t you?”

“Er. Yes.”

“D’you think this week we can go back to trans-species Transfiguration?” said Goldstein. “I suppose that’s a bit much for the fifth years…maybe we split the group in half? Fifth and sixth years keep on with Shield Charms, seventh and eighth years have a crack at Transfiguration again?”

“That’s a good idea,” Harry said, saving him from having to respond. “I think all of the eighth years have just about mastered Shield Charms, haven’t they?”

“A bit old hat for us D.A. members, isn’t it?” Boot mused. “Then again, I still haven’t managed it nonverbally.”

“Ask Draco,” Harry said. “He can do all kinds of nonverbal magic.” Without warning, Harry placed a hand on Draco’s knee again; he jumped so hard that he nearly toppled over his mug.

"I saw that in Transfiguration,” said Boot. “You’ll have to teach us, Malf—Draco. Don’t keep all your secrets to yourself.”

“That’s right, Draco,” Harry said slyly. “You have to share your secrets.”

“There’s no secrets,” he snapped, trying to pull himself together. “It’s practice, is what it is, and having proper form.”

“Draco is _very_ keen on proper form,” said Harry, squeezing his knee.

Draco looked over at Granger and Weasley, and he could have sworn Granger’s eyes flicked briefly to the edge of the table where Harry gripped his knee. She looked up and met his eyes, and then she said, “Draco’s right, though. Nonverbal magic takes lots of practice. It’s not something you can just pick up in a few hours.”

“Is that why McGonagall and Proudfoot chose you to lead the study groups with Harry?” asked Goldstein.

“I suppose so,” he muttered.

"Proudfoot’s alright, isn’t he?” said Boot. “Ernie and I are working with him. He’s let us do loads…connected us with one of his old buddies at the Ministry, in the Investigations Department…if I can say so, it’s rather important work. Of course, that’s made Ernie an absolute nightmare to work with…”

“Investigations?” Weasley asked. “My dad was saying they’re really overworked right now, trying to find all of the Dark wizards and witches on the run since Voldemort died. It’s supposed to be all hands on deck.”

“It is,” said Goldstein. “McGonagall managed to get me a position working in administration. You’d expect it to be boring, but there’s been lots to do, trying to process all the paperwork they need to clear. Passports for the Aurors to travel abroad, warrants, all that stuff, you know.”

"Strange you’re not in there with us, Harry,” said Boot. “You’d think they would have promoted you right to Auror.”

Harry gave a funny little smile. “I think I prefer to be out of the limelight for a while.”

“‘Course you do. And anyway, there’ll always be a job waiting for you at the Ministry, I’m sure. I bet you could have your pick.”

“I should think all of us have good prospects,” Goldstein said happily, raising his mug to them. “We all fought in the battle, didn’t we? That doesn’t seem to have gone unnoticed. Look at Hermione, working in Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures.”

Granger bristled. “And I can assure you, my first priority is changing the name of that horrible department. Isn’t it just dreadful? ‘Regulation and Control.’ As if house-elves, centaurs, and goblins are ‘creatures’ we need to control! You know we have yet to have a single centaur use the liaison office? What good is it, then? And wizard-goblin relations have been fraught for centuries…The system needs an entire overhaul.”

“And no one better than our Hermione to do it,” Harry said fondly. Granger blushed and took a sip of her drink.

“Ron’s already started his Auror training,” Goldstein continued.

It took everything in Draco not to laugh. Weasley, an Auror? God help whoever was stuck as his partner.

“It was good of McGonagall to set up the internship program, but I think we would have been fine, anyway,” said Boot. “Surely facing Voldemort and his Death Eaters has given us some kind of credentials?” As the others laughed, Boot grinned and was about to take a swig of his firewhisky when he caught sight of Draco. He blanched. “I mean, of course—grades matter, too, don’t they—and we didn’t all—we all had different, different situations, didn’t we—so it’s not everything—”

Weasley scoffed.

“Draco, how are you finding your internship?” Granger asked in a high-pitched voice. “Are you interested in teaching?”

“No, not really,” he said.

“There are rumours Professor Slughorn wants to go back to his retirement,” she said, still pressing on in that overly cheery voice. “Teaching Potions would be quite fascinating, wouldn’t it? You’ve always been strong in Potions.”

"I’m a bit young to teach at Hogwarts, aren’t I?” he said. “And I doubt any parent would be keen on having their child taught by a former Death Eater.”

Granger glanced anxiously at Harry, who laughed. “Proper ray of sunshine, isn’t he?” The others chuckled, relieved as the tension diffused. “‘Former Death Eater.’ You’re so dramatic. You spent the battle being chased around the castle by your mother, and if memory serves, you didn’t rat us out to your aunt in the Manor, either. What good were you?”

Even Weasley laughed at that. Draco stared at Harry, stunned. The conversation moved on; Susan Bones, who was swaying in her chair, had started to recount her experience working under Ollivander’s tutelage. Draco ignored her. He was still looking at Harry, whose hand was burning an imprint into his knee. This wasn’t like him at all—he’d been touched hundreds of times, in dozens of places, and he should have been well beyond this giddiness. But there was something so blatant about the way Harry—God, using that name still felt so strange—was touching him. As though they were hiding in plain sight.

“You’re acting very oddly tonight,” he muttered. Harry leaned closer to hear him.

“Am I? I hadn’t noticed.”

"And what’s with all this…first name stuff?”

“It’s Hermione who suggested it,” Harry said, tracing a finger around the rim of his glass. “Ron was going on about the Slytherins…you know how he is, always the last to change…all ‘Malfoy’ this and ‘Zabini’ that, and Hermione said it’s about time we put an end to it. We’ve been in school together, what, eight years now? Seems a bit silly.”

“A lot of things seem silly this year.”

“Mmm.” Draco was only a bit disappointed when Harry took his hand away to refill their drinks.

“You’re trying to get me drunk,” he said flatly.

"What would I need to do that for?” Harry grinned at him. “You’re usually willing enough, even without alcohol.”

“Potter!” He gaped, scandalized. A few people looked over. Lowering his voice, he said through gritted teeth, “Your friends are _right there_.”

“Harry,” he corrected him.

“You’re _sure_ you haven’t told them?”

“I haven’t. But what does it matter? Really? What difference would it make if I just decided to snog you right here?”

“For starters, I think Weasley would have a stroke,” he said.

“Ron.”

“That’s going too far. You know it.”

As though Weasley had heard him, he looked up, scowling at him over his mug.

“Well, this won’t be awkward at all,” Draco said.

Harry sniggered. “They’ll be fine. Give them time.”

“I don’t know how I feel about this new, optimistic Harry Potter,” he said, sitting back in his chair. “You were always so moody and angry. I’m not sure this is an improvement.”

Harry laughed at that; again, several heads swiveled towards them. Harry seemed not to notice. “Dunno. Guess I’m happier this year.”

“I suppose not being hunted down by a psychopath does wonders for one’s mood.”

“Maybe. Lots of other reasons to be happy this year, though…”

Draco raised his eyebrows and was about to respond when Granger said loudly, “Look at the time! We should be getting back. It’s nearly midnight.”

They left the pub in various states of intoxication. To Draco’s horror, Finnigan and Thomas started up a rousing chorus of the Gryffindor version of “Weasley is Our King” as they stumbled down the lane. Several others joined in, even as they were shushed angrily from an open window. Draco was happy to take up the rear, walking along at a bit of a distance from the crowd. It had been hot inside the Three Broomsticks, and he reveled in the cold night air. He cast a soft Warming Charm and then tucked his wand into his cloak, next to the velvet pouch. He shoved his hands into his pockets and took a deep inhale when all at once someone grabbed him from behind. He was so startled that he couldn’t yell—he froze, mind blank, as his assailant dragged him off into a dark alleyway.

He snarled as Harry shoved him against a stone wall. “You fucking scared me,” he snapped.

“Why are you scared?” Harry was already sliding his hands under Draco’s cloak. “You know I wouldn’t let anyone touch you.”

“My hero.” His sarcasm wasn't very biting as Harry kissed along his neck. Still, he managed to ask, “You’re insatiable, aren’t you?”

“Really?” Harry pulled back and eyed him critically. “You’re going to show up in the tightest shirt I’ve ever seen, and trousers that leave _nothing_ to the imagination, and then you’re going to ask me to keep my hands to myself?”

Draco gaped at him. He felt himself blushing. “You’re—that’s just—I didn’t wear this with any intention of—”

“Is that so?” Harry leaned so close to him that their lips were nearly touching. “So you’re fine if I just walk off, then.”

As haughtily as he could manage, Draco said, “Of course. I, unlike you, don’t have the hormones of a teenager.”

“Yeah?” Harry breathed. He was suddenly sliding his fingers along Draco’s belt. “So this does nothing for you, then?” Harry’s fingers trailed further down to brush against the unmistakable bulge straining against Draco’s trousers. Frustrated, he pulled Harry closer and kissed him fiercely, growling into his mouth. Harry reached up to cup his face. The feel of the other man’s stubble, the taste of beer on his tongue, the little sounds he made as they kissed—it was maddening.

Breathless, Draco pulled away and said, “We’ll be seen.”

“Yeah.” Harry was staring up at him, eyes wide, hands resting on his shoulders.

“We’d better catch up with the others.”

“You have no idea what I’d do to you if we were alone…God, look at you…” Draco swallowed hard. “Next time…next time I want you to call me ‘Harry.’ And I want to hear my name come out of your mouth over, and over, and over.”

Draco nearly jumped out of his skin when he heard Weasley call “Harry?” He made to rearrange his cloak, but Harry laughed, barely pulling away from him.

“Guess I’m being summoned,” he said. “Come on.”

Harry lied and told Weasley and Granger that they had seen a niffler running down the alley. They were clearly skeptical—“what would a niffler be doing out at this time of night? And in this weather?” Granger had asked suspiciously—but they didn’t press. They walked back to Hogwarts together, Harry and his friends reminiscing about their first trip to Hogsmeade while Draco stayed quiet. Occasionally, his shoulder would bump against Harry’s. As they ambled up the path to Hogwarts, he felt Harry reach out and grip his hand in his. It was pitch black out, and though a few people had lit their wands, they were at little risk of being caught in the darkness. Still, he couldn’t believe Harry’s audacity. How much had he drunk? Walking along together in the dark, Harry chattering away happily with his friends, Draco thought that this might be the most intimate they had ever been. It was only hand holding, and he was positive the beer had made him sentimental and silly, but a comforting warmth spread through his body as once again they shared a secret not even Harry’s friends knew about. They only parted when they reached the Entrance Hall, Draco slipping his hand out of Harry’s as the light coming through the double doors spilled down onto them. Before following the other Slytherins down into the dungeons, Draco looked over at Harry, who was headed up the staircase. Their eyes met, and Harry gave him a soft smile before disappearing up the stairs.


	17. xvii.

Tuesday morning, Pansy and Draco spent their free period in the courtyard. Pansy whined as she followed him outside, insisting that it was too cold and that she would fall ill, but she relented once Draco cast a Warming Charm strong enough to heat half the courtyard. They sat together on a stone bench, dressed warmly in their thick winter cloaks, watching as a handful of snowflakes trickled down.

“So, now that we’re alone,” said Pansy, “tell me _everything_ about Saturday night.”

He had been expecting this. The others had interrogated him the moment they stepped into the Slytherin common room, demanding why he had sat next to Harry in the pub, what they had spoken about, why they were suddenly on friendly terms. Their pestering had continued well into Sunday. Finally, Draco told them that he was trying to get closer to the Boy Who Lived Twice as a last-ditch effort to sway things in his father’s favour. That seemed to assuage them; he thought himself rather clever for coming up with the lie.

"Nothing happened,” he said. He searched around in his cloak and pulled out a carefully wrapped pastry that he had saved from breakfast. Tearing off a bit of flaky crust, he offered a piece to Pansy, who accepted it.

“Your appetite’s back up,” she said. “But anyway. Sitting with Potter and his friends…that was _so_ odd, even for you.”

“I told you, I’m trying to help my father.”

“I know that. But what did Granger and Weasley do? Were they horrible?”

“They were…alright,” he said truthfully. “You know Granger’s wanted to stop all this house rivalry stuff for years”

"Fair enough, but Gryffindors? I dunno, Draco…first Potter asks you to teach him private lessons, and now you’re having a drink together.”

“And?”

“And? You two hate each other!”

Draco shrugged. He bit into the pastry, tasting the sweet strawberry jam as it oozed out.

“You really think Potter will be able to convince the Wizengamot?” she asked in a low voice.

“Who knows? Stranger things have happened. It seems our Saviour can ask for just about anything these days and get away with it.” More than Pansy could possibly imagine.

“I mean…it’s all very dodgy,” she said. “But if it helps your father…I just want all of this to be over with.”

“I don’t think it’s anywhere near finished. They’re out for blood. They want revenge. And I don’t know if I can really blame them.”

“Draco!” she cried. “This is your father we’re talking about. Of course you can blame them. If you heard the rumours, the things they’re saying, what they plan to do to your father if they find—” She suddenly stopped, face stricken.

“It’s alright. I’ve already heard.”

“It’s cruel.”

Draco looked at her. “And you don’t think what my father did was cruel? You don’t know what he’s done, what he’s capable of, the things I’ve seen him do.”

“But the Dementor’s Kiss…”

He shoved the rest of the pastry into her hands. He wasn’t hungry anymore.

“Draco. I’m not saying what he did was okay,” she whispered. “But if it was me, I’d rather be dead than suffer…that. And think about your mother…”

There it was. The crux of the matter. “I think about my mother. All the time. Every fucking day I’m here, I think of her.”

Pansy gave him a tremulous smile. “I know. She’s always been kind to me, your mother.”

"That’s because she’s hoping we’ll make a match someday.”

She laughed at that. “You _still_ haven’t told them? God. That’s going to be an awful shock for her.”

“They’ve had a lot of shocks over the past few years. I thought I’d let the dust settle before dropping this one on them.”

“They could still make a good match for you, though,” she said fairly.

“Our fortune isn’t exactly what it used to be,” he murmured, looking away.

“Oh, money comes and goes. My parents always said that your father has a funny way of bouncing back from things.” She finished off the pastry and licked jam from her fingers as she said, “Let’s see, who would be a good enough match for Draco Malfoy? Surely out of every bloke you’ve shagged, one of them is from the Sacred Twenty-Eight?”

He snorted. “The last thing I’m worried about is the damned Sacred Twenty-Eight.”

“And what about your mother?”

“Who knows?” He shrugged. “After everything that’s happened, it doesn’t seem very pressing.”

"Oh, come on, play along. Let’s say you _had_ to pick someone. Who would it be?”

“I don’t know.”

“There’s always Longbottom,” she teased. Draco rolled his eyes at her. “Or perhaps Weasley is more your type?”

“Charlie Weasley's quite fit, to be honest,” Draco said, sniggering when Pansy gasped.

“Have you lost your mind?” she shrieked. “God, Draco.”

“And what about you?” he asked her. “I suppose you and Theo will make a good match.”

She screamed even louder, pushing him so hard he nearly fell off the bench.

“My parents will probably find me some distant cousin in France,” said Pansy, making a face. “They’ve given up on you, of course. Ever since…”

“Must you _still_ bring that up?” The summer before fourth year, theirs and several other families had spent the holidays in Switzerland together. One incredibly awkward evening, Pansy’s mother had walked in on him groping some Swiss boy he had met in Lucerne.

“‘ _He isn’t even a half-blood!_ ’” Pansy wailed, imitating her mother.

“I think she was just upset that I’d ruined her plans.”

“Probably. She was furious! But she never did tell your parents, did she? She always liked you. Thought you were clever.”

“I _am_ clever.”

“Alright, then, tell me this.” Pansy leaned back on the bench, appraising him. “What’s happened between you and Blaise? And don’t lie.”

“Nothing. Nothing’s happened at all.”

“I said don’t lie!”

“He and I—there’s nothing. I don’t even know if we’re friends.”

Pansy frowned at him. “I _know_ you two got up to something one night in sixth year. After exams, I was so shocked that you bothered to show up—we’d hardly seen you that year. You got spectacularly drunk, I _know_ you remember, and then you and Blaise went off to your dorm. No one else was up there. And the next day all you would tell me was that you two fell asleep.”

“We did,” he insisted. “What, you think just because we both like blokes, it means we _have_ to shag? I’ll have you know, that’s very—”

“Come off it!” she said hotly. “Stop avoiding the question. What did you two do?”

She frowned at him, mouth set into an angry pout, until he finally sneered, “You’d make a lousy Legilimens, you know.”

She threw up her arms in exasperation. “You’re so secretive! I tell you practically everything.”

This was technically true. Over the years, Draco had been forced to sit through countless retellings of her ridiculous escapades.

“Zabini and I…it’s weird.” He paused, watching as a group of Gryffindors scurried under the colonnade. “We might have…might have had one or two…moments.” To his surprise, Pansy stayed quiet, eyeing him curiously. “I can’t remember all of it. It’s weird, my memory…some stuff I can remember so clearly. But I’ve forgotten so much. The past two years, sometimes they feel like they weren’t even real.”

Pansy reached out and put her hand over his as he gripped the edge of the bench. He continued, unable to stop himself: “I sort of just…found people to take the edge off, to forget for a while…And now I can’t remember most of what happened. Or even their names, really.”

Draco expected her to tease him, but again, she said nothing.

“I know that probably makes me sound awful. But honestly, compared to everything else I’ve done…it’s nothing, is it? Nothing at all.”

He almost didn’t hear her as she whispered, “You were a child. You didn’t know any better.”

“I wish people would stop saying that. Last year I was seventeen.”

"You were protecting your parents.” When he looked away angrily, she said, “Your mother.”

“My mother.” He snorted. “My parents. It’s them who got me into this mess, isn’t it? Do you know something?” His eyes searched the sky, incapable of looking at her. “Sometimes I hate them. I fucking hate them.”

She squeezed his hand tighter and they sat in silence for a moment. Finally, she said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“You didn’t. It’s fine. But anyway, back to your question—Zabini and I. _Maybe_ there was one kiss. Maybe.” Draco couldn’t stop himself from smiling as she lit up, clapping her hands over her mouth and giggling.

“ _One_? Liar! I always knew something happened!” She gripped his arm. “It was that night after exams, wasn’t it? Tell me!”

When he gave her a shrewd smile, she squealed again. “I knew it! I knew it! And? How far did it go?”

“Nosy, aren’t you?”

“Yes!”

"Hm…let’s see if I can remember.” He sat back, frowning in a mock attempt at recalling the details. “We were in his bed, I think. We kissed…I remember that. Hands might have gone in certain places…there may have been grinding.” At Pansy’s squeak, he added: “With clothes _on_.”

“And then what happened?” she asked breathlessly.

He hesitated, and then lied, “I think we were so drunk we just fell asleep. And that was basically it.”

“What! And you two have managed to just go on as friends, as though nothing happened? It isn't weird at all?”

“Not really,” he said. “We just sort of…don’t talk about it much.”

“So do you fancy him at all?”

“What? No.” Draco frowned. “Of course not. Can you imagine Blaise and I together?”

She made a face. “I guess not. But there has to be someone, Draco. Even you can’t be that hard to please.”

He shifted uncomfortably. There _was_ someone, of course—or there might be. He had no idea where he and Harry stood. Draco studied Pansy’s face for a moment, wondering if he should tell her. Before he could decide, they heard footsteps crunching in the frozen grass. Looking up, he saw Daphne walking towards them, arms crossed.

"It’s freezing out here!” she cried. “Are you both mad?”

“Warming Charm,” he answered.

“Still, come back inside. It’s about lunchtime.” Flashing Draco her most winning smile, she said, “And I was wondering if you could have a quick look at my Runes essay before class. Please?”

“Fine,” he grumbled. They went back into the castle together, Pansy clutching his arm. As Daphne chattered away about her essay, Pansy whispered into his ear, “I won’t tell anyone. About anything. Promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to take a quick moment to thank everyone for the Kudos and for the kind comments. I haven't replied to each one because I don't want to clutter up the comments section, but the validation means so much to me. I'm finally getting back into writing after almost a decade of being too busy with my PhD and my two young kids. Your words of encouragement and your excitement over the fic really make my day and inspire me to keep going.


	18. xviii.

When Draco caught Harry in passing in the library later that day, he told him that he was too tired to attend their “practice session” that night. In truth, he was starting to feel that old sense of dread creep back, and he needed time to sort himself out. At least he knew the source of his anxiety: his father’s hearing tomorrow. A small part of him had expected to receive a note from his parents—perhaps reassuring him, updating him, or at the very least, asking how he was. But he heard nothing. The velvet pouch tucked into his cloak nagged at him wherever he went. The temptation to open it had long passed—he was almost afraid of it, now, and he had decided that he was better off not knowing what it contained. The same was true of his father: he had been quite young when he decided that there were questions regarding his father that he would rather not know the answer to.

He briefly considered skipping his classes on Wednesday but thought better of it; he could use the distraction. And anyway, he had double Potions with Gryffindor, and that meant seeing Harry. Although they had barely seen each other since Saturday, Draco spent every night laying in bed, repeating that name to himself over and over—Harry, Harry, Harry. He tried to get used to the sound on his tongue. It wasn’t unpleasant. When he did manage to drift off for a few hours, he fell asleep with that name floating through his consciousness. Of course, his thoughts of Harry mingled with his fears for his father, and so most mornings he woke up miserable and exhausted.

Draco was so anxious during Potions that he didn’t even bother trying not to stare in Harry’s direction. If Zabini noticed, he didn’t say anything. They had moved on to brewing their own Cough Remedies, and Zabini—to Draco’s amusement—had stirred anti-clockwise when he was meant to stir clockwise. He poured over his textbook, rifling rapidly through the pages, which allowed Draco ample opportunity to watch Harry. Occasionally, their eyes met as Harry glanced back at him, and Draco found himself startled by the sombre look on his face. Usually, the Gryffindors were in good spirits during Potions, as Slughorn was lenient and allowed them to chat as they worked. However, while Granger and Weasley kept up their usual babble, Harry was uncharacteristically quiet. Was he angry that Draco had skipped their “lesson” last night?

Draco ate nothing at dinner, despite Pansy’s coaxing. His eyes met Harry’s several times from across the Great Hall—the sad look on his face only ramped up Draco’s unease. He was sick of being surrounded by people, and the smell of ham from that night’s dinner made him nauseous. The warm air in the Great Hall was stifling. Abruptly, he took one last sip of water from his goblet and then pushed away from the table. He saw Daphne and Pansy exchange looks, but they said nothing. He stalked out of the Great Hall, letting his feet lead him out the double doors and onto the grounds. Finally, it had started to snow in earnest. That afternoon they had been hit with squalls. Now, the air felt strangely still, as though the earth was recovering from the storm’s blistering attack. He made his way down the path to the Quidditch pitch, not really paying attention to where he was going. Before he knew it, he found himself at the stands. He cast a soft Warming Charm and climbed up to the Slytherin box. The wooden seat creaked under him as he sat—it was ice-cold, but his Warming Charm was effective, and soon he was comfortable enough. As he sat there, staring at the empty pitch, he suddenly remembered Harry's insistence that they play each other one last time before the term ended.

Draco's stomach clenched and his breath caught in his throat when he heard a soft _hoot_ and the sound of fluttering wings. He wasn’t surprised to see Callidus soaring towards him, but the sight was still unwelcome.

“Hi, you,” he said quietly. Callidus landed gracefully on the wooden bench next to him. As Draco untied the furled parchment in silence, he thought that even Callidus looked morose. “Cheer up. I’ll bring you some treats tomorrow.” Callidus nipped at him affectionately but stayed perched by his side. Giving him one last stroke, Draco took a deep, bracing inhale and then unfolded the parchment.

_Hearing took all day. Majority of the Wizengamot called for Dementor’s Kiss. Shacklebolt trying to intervene. Sign request for funds withdrawal tomorrow. One more hearing scheduled for February—formality. They’ll read the final charges and verdict then._

Draco had expected it, of course, but he sat rooted to the spot, rereading the brief message over and over. Although the note was clearly written in his father’s script, the letters were shaky and nearly illegible at some parts. The wobbly scrawl was too much for him—maybe he shouldn’t care, maybe he shouldn’t be bothered anymore, but he crumbled the parchment in his fist and set it aflame with a sharp jab from his wand. He watched as the ashes drifted away, wiping his hand on his trousers before pocketing his wand. There was a lump in his throat. He could barely take a breath. His thoughts raced so quickly that he hardly had time to examine one before the next fear came screeching through. What would happen to his mother? Was she alright? He wondered what his parents were doing right at that moment, alone in the Manor. Were they comforting one another? Or was his father drinking himself to oblivion? Would Shacklebolt be able to turn things around? Did his father’s lawyers have any other options? And, of course, the velvet pouch…Draco reached into his cloak and grasped it tightly. When should he get it to his father? And how would it help him? What more could they possibly do?

He ran his fingers through Callidus’ plumage as he tried to calm himself. Callidus was staring up at him with his big, orange eyes. “You’re a good boy,” he muttered. “Everything will be alright. You stay at the Owlery for now. I’ll bring you something tomorrow. You’ve had a long trip.” They sat in silence for a while longer, Draco refusing to let himself cry. He needed to get a grip. He had known this was a possible outcome. And his father…he deserved it, didn’t he? How many people had he tortured and killed? How many lives had he destroyed? How many families had lived in fear because of his father and the other Death Eaters? He had asked himself more than once if he would have wanted the Death Eaters subjected to the Dementor’s Kiss if he had lost a child, or a parent, or a sibling…

Draco didn’t know what was right or wrong. How could he? He had been raised in a fucked up household, with at least one fucked up parent, and the other one had apparently condoned everything. What did that make him, then? He gave Callidus one last scratch and then rose shakily to his feet. He waited until Callidus took off for the Owlery, and then he headed back to the castle. No doubt the news would be in the papers by the next morning. Nott’s father wasn’t faring much better, so at least he wouldn’t have to endure his half-witted remarks. By the time Draco arrived in the entrance hall, his face was bright pink—he was so bewildered that he had forgotten to refresh his Warming Charm. He stood in the hall for a moment, watching as a few Slytherins headed down to the dungeons, and then, inexplicably, he started to climb up the main staircase. He took the stairs at a jog, pushing past a group of students who failed to scatter away in time. He had just made it to the seventh-floor landing when Harry headed him off.

"How did you—how did you know?” Draco asked, startled. In truth, he was grateful Harry had found him, because his only other plan had been to stand outside the Fat Lady’s portrait until a Gryffindor came by.

Harry shook his head. He still had that gloomy look on his face. Had Draco done something wrong? Silently, Harry took his hand. Draco would have ordinarily resisted—anyone could see them, it wasn’t even curfew yet, there were students everywhere—but, in his panic, he allowed Harry to pull him down the corridor. He only released Draco’s hand once they were at the blank wall opposite Barnabas the Barmy’s tapestry. Draco waited as Harry paced by the wall three times. The moment the door appeared, Harry took Draco’s hand again and led him through the doorway. It was as though he didn’t trust Draco to find his way on his own. He should have been annoyed, but it was oddly touching. He had no idea what Harry had asked for, but the gist of his request was apparent: although he felt nauseous with fear, he couldn’t help but crack a smile at the sight of the giant four-poster bed. There was a fireplace at the centre of the room, crackling merrily away, and a pair of armchairs faced the fire, one scarlet and the other green.

“Really, Potter? A bit forward, aren’t you?” He tried his best to sneer, but his heart wasn’t in it.

“Harry.” The man in question turned to face him, hands in his pockets.

“Right. Harry.”

“And I only asked for a place to talk.”

They stood in silence for a moment, appraising each other, when finally, Harry said, “I know what happened at the hearing. Yesterday night, I sort of…heard what they were planning. And I figured, unless Shacklebolt managed to change most of their minds before today, then…” He took a deep breath, and then finished lamely, “It doesn’t look good.”

“No. No, it doesn’t.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for what?” he snapped. He had no idea where this anger was coming from—only that it felt more satisfying than the fear that had been gripping him all day. He flung himself into the green armchair. “My father’s a Death Eater, or have you forgotten? You’ll be glad to see him rot, I’m sure.”

Harry frowned. “You know that’s not true.”

“Isn’t it? Don’t you want to see my father suffer like everyone else does?”

“The Dementor’s Kiss…I agree with Shacklebolt, it’s too far. There’s never a reason for that. Not even for…”

“For psychopaths like my father?” he offered. He gave a cold, bitter laugh and slumped back, hands on his face.

Harry sat in the armchair next to him, perching at the edge. “Look. He’s your father. They’re your parents. I can understand why you’d be—upset, or worried, or—”

“Stop trying to pretend like you know how I feel.”

"I’m not. I just want to be there for you.”

Draco rubbed his eyes, suddenly drained. “I’m fine. I knew this was coming. My father heard rumours from the Ministry.”

“I’m going to Floo Shacklebolt first thing tomorrow, see what I can do.”

“The Golden Boy, coming to my rescue once again,” Draco muttered. He refused to look Harry in the eye, instead staring into the fire.

“What? What are you talking about? Why are you being like this?”

“I’m not being like anything.”

"Talk to me. Tell me what you’re thinking. You’re pale as a ghost. You didn’t eat at dinner. Talk to me, please?”

“What do you want me to say?” he snarled. “My parents are miles away, and they’ve just gotten probably the worst news of their lives, and I’m not even there with them. There’s nothing I can do, Po—Harry. Nothing. And you know what the best part is?” He couldn’t stop himself—his eyes were welling up with tears. His voice shook as he said, “He deserves it. He fucking deserves it, doesn’t he? Maybe _I_ deserve it. You tell me.” He turned to Harry, barely seeing him. “You know everything. You always know right from wrong. You have since day one. God, it’s so fucking annoying. So you tell me, tell me now: does he deserve it? Did I?”

Harry sank to his knees in front of Draco. He took his hands and said, “You don’t. Of course you don’t. You have to know that. Why else would I testify for you?”

"You haven’t testified for my father,” Draco sniffed. “Because you think he deserves it.”

“Your father might deserve a lot of things. The Dementor’s Kiss isn’t one of them.”

Draco stared at him for a moment, and then whispered, “He’s a monster, isn’t he?” When Harry said nothing, he pulled his hands away, wiping his eyes angrily. “I hate him. I fucking hate him. I wish they’d just get it over with, just do it already. Be done with it. Be done with him.”

“Don’t say that.”

“You don’t know my father!” he roared. Though Harry’s face was only a few inches away from his, he didn’t flinch. “You don’t know everything he’s done! Everything I’ve seen him do… He’s insane about this pure-blood stuff, but it’s more than that. I think he…” Draco lowered his voice and forced himself to say it. “I think he likes it…likes torturing people, hearing them beg…killing them…maybe not as much near the end, but…” He was crying in earnest now. “At the beginning, I told myself it was just to get himself ahead, you know? He’s always had powerful friends, my father…always been obsessed with money, and how to get more of it…So for years I told myself that he couldn’t have been that bad, because the Ministry let him off, didn’t they? I figured he’d been involved with the Death Eaters for the status, the power, the connections. You have no idea how many holidays my parents have taken, homes they’ve bought in other countries, rooms they’ve decorated in the Manor, all thanks to people’s fear of my father…all sorts of Dark Arts stuff…but anyway…”

Harry was listening to him quietly. Draco knew he shouldn’t be saying all of this, but he couldn’t help it: once it had started to spill out, he couldn’t control the deluge. “So then the Dark Lord comes back at the end of our fourth year. And I think to myself, well, he’s in a difficult situation, right? Because if he doesn’t go back with the Death Eaters…they’ll kill him. You won’t believe what the Dark Lord let my father get away with. I don’t know why. I guess because he was useful. But I figured it was all an act, just a way to line his pockets a bit more, or to keep us out of trouble. But then they started—started bringing me when they would…go. We would go out and…” He couldn’t say it. Harry nodded, showing that he understood. In a hoarse voice, Draco continued: “It was awful, the stuff I saw. And he was doing it, too. He _liked_ it. Thought it was funny. Got off on it. Then it started getting…bad. He fucked up at the Ministry. The Dark Lord…he was getting impatient. And so he asked me to…he wanted to get back at my father, figured he’d punish him, you know, and it would’ve been too kind to just off me…so he used me, strung it out, and I think my parents knew I’d probably die in the end.”

“But you didn’t,” Harry whispered.

Draco gave a shaky laugh and wiped his face with the back of his hand. “No. I didn’t. Probably deserved to, but I didn’t. But back then…obviously we didn’t know I’d survive…My mother, she’s a very rational person, my mother is…but she went to every Seer you can think of. Had my palm read. Had some hag come to the Manor to read my tea leaves. Dragged me all the way to Guilin to see some expert in Chinese Fortune Sticks, don’t know if you’ve ever heard of those…that was a bloody awful trip…and all the while my father just goes on _killing_ people. _Hurting_ people. Sometimes the killing wasn’t even the worst part, because then at least it’s over for them, right? God, what a fucking thing to say.”

Harry held Draco’s hands as he cried. Though his chest hurt, he pressed on. “There were times when they tried to force me to do it. I—I know that one time, in the bathroom, I fucking…I was scared. I really thought he was going to kill me. I _knew_ he was going to kill me. I just couldn’t manage to fix that damned cabinet. And then I saw you, and I thought you knew what was going on, and I panicked like an idiot, and I…” He broke down again. Harry shushed him softly, rubbing his hands. “Thank God you did that—that spell. Can you imagine if I’d…well, anyway, that year…it was awful…they forced me to…but they didn’t force me, did they? I could have said no.”

“You couldn’t have,” Harry said. “They’d have killed you. Or your parents.”

“You’re telling me you would have done it?” he asked fiercely. “If the Dark Lord told you to torture someone, you’d have done it?” Before Harry could answer, he said, “You wouldn’t. You’d have never. Even if it meant he’d kill you.”

"If it was my parents, it might have been different,” Harry said quietly. “Or Ron…or Hermione…or…” He looked down, embarrassed.

“You’d have found a way out. You _always_ manage to find a way out. But I didn’t. I did awful things, terrible things. I brought them into the castle, for fuck’s sake. And in seventh year…my father just kept telling me ‘play the part,’ ‘play the part,’ so I did. That whole year I just…” Draco shook his head.

Harry reached up and wiped the tears from his face. As Draco cried, Harry caught each tear as it trickled down. They sat like that for some time, until finally Draco took a long, steadying breath. He felt utterly depleted. He couldn’t remember the last time he had cried like this. For months he had felt numb to his sadness, and now it was all coming out. He had probably just made a horrible mistake, telling all of this to Harry Potter of all people, but he didn’t care anymore. It wasn’t as though things could get much worse.

“I didn’t know my father,” Harry said, catching another teardrop as it trickled down Draco's cheek. “But I heard things about him. Saw things. Saw memories. And some of what he did…it was awful. He did things to Snape that…”

“Please,” Draco whispered, squeezing his eyes shut, “don’t talk about him.”

“Right. Sorry. The point is, he did really nasty things. I was so ashamed when I found out. I guess because I never knew him, and everyone speaks so highly of him, I just thought there was no way he could do something so cruel.”

“Schoolyard bullying is hardly comparable to torturing Muggles,” Draco sniffed.

“Maybe not. But he’s still my dad. And I’m still proud to be his son. It’s just more complicated now, I guess. Growing up, and seeing people for who they really are…for you to have to find out things like that, about your own father…I’m sorry. I really, really am.”

“It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine.”

“I’m just being an idiot,” he said, chuckling darkly. “Why am I crying? It’s funny. Witches and wizards across Britain will raise a glass when they find out my father's getting the Dementor’s Kiss…maybe they’ll sell tickets to go see it, who knows…”

“I really don’t think Shacklebolt will let it happen. They’re all just angry, and it’s making them feel better to punish your father as much as they can. I don’t think they’ll actually do it. I think they just want to scare him.”

“Yeah.” Draco rubbed the last few tears off his face and straightened out his cloak. He ran his fingers through his hair, trying to tidy up the long strands. “Anyway. Sorry about that. And don’t bother contacting the Ministry. I think you’ve done enough for my family.”

“That’s not a very Malfoy thing to say, is it?” Harry asked, the corner of his lip twitching. “Aren’t you Slytherins supposed to be resourceful? You’ve got Harry Potter in front of you, to use however you want, and you’re not jumping at the chance?”

Draco gave a half-hearted smirk as he said, “I think I’ve used you plenty of other ways over the last couple of months.”

“Oh, _now_ who’s forward?” Harry laughed. “Anyway, what is it you always call me? Saint Potter? You know I can’t just stand aside and let this play out. You think I’m going to pass up another chance to be the hero?”

Draco pushed him gently, smiling. “Oh, of course. I forgot that you Gryffindors are always so noble.”

Harry squeezed his hands. “Come and lay down with me. Just for a while.”

Looking over at the bed, Draco grimaced. “I don’t think I…I’m not really in the right frame of mind for…for that…”

“No! Of course,” he said quickly. “Not _that._ I just meant…lay together for a bit. That’s all. We never get to just talk.”

“So you want to cuddle, is it?” Draco smirked but he stood, allowing Harry to lead him to the bed.

“Is that so bad?” Harry kicked off his shoes and climbed under the sheets. Draco pulled off his cloak, folding it and setting it down neatly on the floor, before taking off his own shoes and crawling under the sheets. They lay there, side by side, and for a while they did nothing more than take each other in. Draco was struck by the intimacy—holding Harry’s hand, laying next to him in bed, fully clothed, he felt more vulnerable than he ever had before. He was drained from crying, but he also felt purged. It was as though some of the terrible thoughts that had plagued him for so long lost their power upon being spoken.

“Tell me about your childhood,” Harry breathed. “Your mother. What’s she like?”

“It seems a bit cruel, talking about one’s mother to someone who…” He couldn’t finish his sentence.

Harry smiled. “Go on. Tell me about her. Tell me what it was like growing up with a mother. She seems to adore you.”

“My mother…” He rolled onto his back and stared up at the ceiling, trying to decide how to respond. “She’s an interesting woman, my mother. She’s never said it, but I’ve always thought she wanted more children. I know she and you had your…differences. A lot of differences.” Harry chuckled next to him. “But she was a very good mother. Especially before everything fell apart like it did. She’d bring me places all the time. We traveled loads. Being an only child, I guess I didn’t really have that many friends growing up. My father’s friends, some of them had children, so we’d play together when we went on holidays or when they visited the Manor. But really…most of the time it was just my mother and me. But it wasn’t lonely. It was quite nice.”

“You had people at the Manor a lot?”

“Yes. All the time. Usually my father’s business associates, or someone coming to ask for a favour. My father was very good at doing favours for people. It put them in his debt. You wouldn’t believe the amount of people at the Ministry who’ve owed my father over the years. Of course, I guess that doesn’t really matter, now.” This was too painful to talk about—he swallowed hard, and then said, “But, yes. We had visitors all the time. Every summer we’d do a dinner party out in the gardens. It was supposed to be for charity. My mother would be frantic the week before. Actually, it was kind of funny. One summer—I must have been eight, maybe nine, but no, I think eight—I let off a Dungbomb in the sitting room. I can’t remember why.” He frowned, trying to recall. “I was probably just bored, or I wanted my mother’s attention. But anyway, she was _furious._ Lost her mind completely.”

"What did she do?”

“Threw me in the dungeons for a week.” He looked over at Harry, who was staring at him in horror, and laughed. “I’m joking! Of course she didn’t put me in the dungeons. She just yelled a lot. My father was out in the gardens checking everything over, so we managed to clean it up before he came back in. Had to open every window in the Manor.”

Harry laughed. “I never would have guessed you of all people terrorized your mother with Dungbombs.”

“Well, there isn’t much else to do at a dinner party when you’re eight years old,” Draco defended himself. “I wonder if she remembers that. Probably not. My mother has the incredible ability of remembering only the best of me. She has a very selective form of amnesia in which she forgets all of my misdeeds.” Draco looked back up at the ceiling, smiling to himself. “And that’s why I was such a well-rounded, humble child, you see.”

Harry laughed and shoved his arm playfully. “That _does_ explain a lot about you.”

“Mmm.”

They were quiet for a moment, and then Draco said, “And what about you? You grew up with your aunt and uncle, didn’t you?”

“And my cousin Dudley.”

“What were they like?”

“Horrible. And _not_ because they were Muggles.”

“I wasn’t going to say that,” Draco grumbled.

“Right. I know.” Harry heaved a big sigh. “They didn’t really like magic much, though. My Uncle Vernon didn’t want to take me in, but my Aunt Petunia did. Dumbledore left her a letter, explaining that so long as I lived with them, the magical protection my mother gave me—the protection that kept me safe from Voldemort—would stay intact.”

Draco shuddered at the name, but Harry didn’t seem to notice. “So they let me stay, but they hated me. I spent most of my time in a cupboard under the stairs. And then, when I started getting letters from Hogwarts, they moved me to Dudley’s second bedroom.”

“ _Second_ bedroom?” he asked. Even he hadn’t had a second bedroom.

“Yeah. It was full of his old rubbish, toys he’d broken.”

“Did they beat you?” Draco asked quietly. “I’d heard that…it was a rumour, going around.”

“No. Just locked me in the cupboard. And then locked me in the bedroom. They didn’t really talk to me much, to be honest. I sort of just stayed out of their way. Except Dudley…he’d come and find me whenever he was bored. Him and his friends would take turns punching me sometimes. It got better once I went to Hogwarts, though. He was scared of me when he found out I could do magic.”

“Disgusting,” Draco hissed.

“Yeah…he’s changed, though. Before I left…the last time I was there. We had…I don’t know. A reconciliation, I guess? And we were so young when all this happened. We didn’t really know what we were doing. Dudley was just spoiled.”

“You keep saying that, but you were young, too. And I don’t seem to recall you making terrible choices.”

“There were a few,” Harry said. He didn’t elaborate, and Draco didn’t press. As they fell into a comfortable silence, Draco listened to the rhythmic sound of Harry’s breathing.

“You know I’m being horribly reckless telling you all this, right? For all I know, you’re gathering up information to use against my father or me.” He scoffed and added, “Of course, I guess it doesn’t really matter now. It seems they have more than enough to damn him with.”

Harry reached out and turned Draco’s face gently towards his. “You can’t give up. I told you, I’ll contact the Ministry first thing tomorrow. There’s still time.”

“The thing is…” He wavered for a moment, unwilling to put into words the thought that had been coursing through his mind for so long. “Do you think it’s worse to just do the Dementor’s Kiss and that be the end of it? Or to spend the rest of your life in Azkaban? At least with the Kiss, you won’t really know what's going on, will you? You’ll just be…there. So which is worse? And which does he deserve?”

Harry shook his head. “You don’t need to decide that.”

“I don’t know what to think of him,” he whispered.

Harry leaned forward and trailed his arm across Draco’s chest, resting their foreheads together. “I’m sorry,” he muttered.

“Don’t be. It’s not your fault.”

“Well, it’s not yours, either.”

Draco looked at Harry, at his open, innocent face, and leaned in to kiss him. It was a soft, chaste kiss, their lips barely touching, but still he turned into Harry’s embrace. It was comforting, being held like this. He wished desperately that they could stay in this room forever, just the two of them, oblivious to the world outside. Draco pulled away and studied Harry’s face. A question lingered on his tongue. It had been bothering him for some time now. He tried to convince himself to let it go, but before he could, it spilled out: “What are we?”

The words jumbled together and for one merciful moment he thought that Harry had not heard him. But, as the corner of his mouth quirked up, Draco realized with a sinking heart that he had most definitely understood.

“I don’t know. You tell me.”

Draco stared at him, saying nothing. He suddenly found it hard to breathe.

“We’re…” Harry grinned. “‘Boyfriends’ sounds so…stupid. ‘Lovers’ is just…” He made a face, as did Draco. “We’re together. Is that okay?”

“So, we’re exclusive, then,” Draco said, feeling extremely foolish. But he needed to be sure.

Harry nodded silently, tracing his finger down Draco’s neck and past his collarbone. It was fascinating, how Harry seemed to study him.

“But we need to keep it secret,” Draco said firmly.

“Why? Who cares?”

“I think you’ll find that a lot of people care. Very much.”

Harry gave an exasperated sigh and flopped onto his back. “I killed Voldemort, didn’t I? I did what everyone asked of me. Why can’t they leave me alone?”

“You’re the Chosen One, the Boy Who Lived Twice,” said Draco. “You can’t escape it: you belong to the wizarding world.”

Harry turned to face him again. “I belong to you.”

Draco’s breath hitched in his throat. He looked away, unsure of what to say. Harry snickered at his discomfort, pulling him to his chest. “Sleep,” he said. “I want to watch you.”

“Right. That isn’t creepy at all.”

Harry said nothing but instead ran his fingers through Draco’s hair. They lay like that until finally, Draco gave in to his drowsiness. For the first time in months—probably years—he slept deeply, hardly dreaming.


	19. xix.

Draco woke slowly from his sleep. He had dreamt very little, except for one strange dream in which he and Severus were walking through the gardens at the Manor. It was autumn, and the leaves on the trees had turned the most subtle shades of ochre and gold. As Draco stirred, what few details he could recall slipped away. He remembered vaguely that towards the end of the dream, Severus had gripped his shoulder and reminded him to be brave. But what was it he was supposed to be brave for? All too quickly, he forgot.

Now more fully awake, Draco looked up at the ceiling. He was in the Room of Requirement. His dormmates must be wondering where he was. Smirking at the thought, he gave in to the pleasure of stretching languidly across the bed. He checked his wristwatch: it was about to turn six. He couldn’t remember the last time he had slept for so long. For once, his mind was at ease. He wasn’t gripped by the nervous energy that usually sparked through his body, or the "what-if" scenarios that regularly plagued him. He lay there a moment longer, enjoying the gentle stretch, when suddenly it occurred to him: _‘where’s Harry?’_

He sat up abruptly, pushing the sheets away. He was about to call out when he spotted Harry sitting in the scarlet armchair in front of the fire. "You're here," he gasped. "I didn't see you at first."

Harry looked back, smiling. “Sorry if I woke you,” he said.

“You didn’t.” Draco crawled out of bed and stood there for a moment, watching Harry. His hair was as messy as Draco had ever seen it. His clothes were ruffled from sleeping in them all night. Draco took out his wand, meaning to perform a basic Ironing Charm for him, when he froze.

Harry had the velvet pouch in his hands.

“What’s this?” Harry asked innocently, holding up a vial.

“Where did you find that?” Draco hissed, lunging towards him. Harry jumped as Draco ripped the vial and pouch out of his hands.

“Your cloak was on the floor,” he yelped. “I didn’t want you to trip on it when you woke up, so I picked it up…and this pouch fell out…”

“Why the hell would you go through my things?”

Harry’s eyes were wide behind his glasses. “I don’t know! It fell—I thought, after we said—I just thought—”

“What? We’re married now, so what’s mine is yours, what’s yours is mine?”

"No!” he said, blushing furiously. “I didn’t think it was a big deal. It was just _there_. I wasn’t thinking.”

"Evidently.” Draco stuffed the vial into the pouch, pulling the drawstrings tightly.

“Why are you so angry?” Harry asked, stricken. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“I can’t believe you’d go through my things,” he said coldly. “You have no idea…if you knew…”

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” Harry scrambled to his feet. “I know it was wrong. I’m sorry.” He made to reach for Draco’s arm.

“Don’t you dare touch me,” he spat. “Where’s my cloak?”

Harry took Draco's cloak from where it hung on the armrest and held it out. He grabbed it angrily and yanked it over his shoulders. As he found his shoes and pulled them on, Harry sat down.

“Don’t you…don’t you come near me again,” Draco warned him. “This was so stupid. God, I’m so stupid. I’ve made such a mistake…if you had…”

“What do you mean?” Harry asked. “What are you talking about?”

For a moment, Draco felt a brief flash of guilt at the pained look on Harry’s face, but it was quickly swept away by the bubbling tide of his fury. He was terrified, and his fear fueled a formidable anger. He felt as though he was going to be sick, and so with one last snarl in Harry’s direction he shoved the pouch deep into his cloak and stormed out of the room.

On his way back to the Slytherin common room, Draco cursed himself for being so stupid. That vial was likely his father’s last chance. How, then, could he have just left it laying on the floor all night? What if Harry had opened the vial? Or dropped it? Or what if Draco had somehow forgotten his cloak on the floor and left the room without it? The very thought turned his stomach.

By the time he reached his dorm, the others were awake and getting ready for class.

“Draco!” Nott said. “Where the hell have you been?”

“None of your business.”

“You’ve been gone all night!” he pressed. “Who were you with? Go on, tell us.” Nott shot a sly grin at Zabini, who said, “Yes, Draco, tell us, who was the lucky lad this time?”

“Fuck off,” he mumbled. He ripped off his clothes and cleaned himself with a quick flick of his wand—he didn’t have time for a shower, although he badly wanted one.

“I bet it was Boot or Goldstein,” Nott declared. “You were all buddies at the Three Broomsticks, weren’t you?” Zabini sniggered, which seemed to only encourage Nott further. “Had them both at once, did you?”

Draco ignored him, pulling on a fresh shirt as quickly as he could.

“Or maybe it was Potter! You sat with him at the pub, too, and you—”

Before Draco knew what he was doing, he had whipped out his wand and was pointing it at Nott.

“I’m only joking,” Nott said weakly, holding up his hands in a display of innocence.

“Don’t you ever say that again,” Draco growled. The urge to hex the stupid look off of Nott’s face was nearly overwhelming.

“Alright, alright…put your wand away, for fuck’s sake…”

Slowly, Draco lowered his wand, still glaring at Nott as he pocketed it. He saw Nott and Zabini exchange a wary look; Greg carried on buttoning his shirt as though nothing had happened. Draco threw open his trunk and took out his textbooks. As he reached down to retrieve his Arithmancy book, he heard Nott mutter to Zabini, “What the hell is up with him…”

At breakfast, he sat in a moody silence. The air was tense at the Slytherin table. The results of his father’s trial were detailed in that morning’s _Prophet_ , along with a commentary on the use of the Dementor’s Kiss as a punishment and whether it was justified. Draco was surprised to find that nobody, not even Nott or Zabini, brought it up. Instead, Pansy led them in a forced discussion of the new bookstore opening in Hogsmeade. One small mercy: it seemed that Pansy, Daphne, and Millicent were unaware that he had never returned to his dorm the night before.

Across the Great Hall at the Gryffindor table, Harry was not even trying to hide the fact that he kept staring in Draco’s direction. Disgusted, Draco glared angrily into his cup of coffee. Every time he thought of Harry sitting in the armchair, gently turning the vial in his hand, a fresh wave of rage washed over him. Just because he was their Lord and Saviour Harry Potter, he didn’t have the right to go through other people’s things. And he hadn’t even seemed that apologetic. The realization that someone else knew about the pouch was horrifying. At any moment, Harry might choose to go to McGonagall or someone from the Ministry and tell them what he knew. He had all sorts of connections, didn’t he?

Draco sipped his coffee until finally the others pushed away from the table, ready to head to their classes. As Draco followed Daphne and Pansy out the Great Hall, he swore he heard Harry call his name. He refused to look back.

***

After the awful fight in the Room of Requirement, Draco became more sullen and withdrawn than ever. He categorically refused to acknowledge Harry during the study groups they led. If the other students noticed, they didn’t comment; they were too busy practicing their Growth Charms. He skipped the Ravenclaw-Hufflepuff Quidditch match without even bothering to come up with an excuse. He spent those two hours laying in bed, sliding the vial through his fingers. It was so small that it fit quite comfortably in the palm of his hand. The amber glass was opaque, preventing him from seeing what was inside. Occasionally, Draco brought the vial up to his ear and gave a soft shake—if he listened carefully, he could hear liquid sloshing within. What on earth could the vial contain? The possibilities were endless, and thinking them through tended to give him a headache.

At first, he suspected it to be some kind of poison, perhaps to kill the Minister or a key member of the Wizengamot. But that seemed rather bold. And anyway, how would his father get close enough to slip poison into someone's drink? For a while, Draco had been certain that the vial must contain Polyjuice Potion. Maybe his father planned to transform into a Ministry worker, or someone else who could leave the Manor unsuspected. One night, Draco sat up in excitement, wondering if perhaps the vial held Felix Felicis: Liquid Luck. Surely if his father drank Felix Felicis, the next hearing would end in his favour. He might possibly be cleared of all charges.

He wanted desperately to open up the vial and confirm his suspicions, but he knew better. After all these years, he was still afraid of his father, and the prospect of angering him was daunting. Besides, there was also the question of whether opening it would be safe. There were extremely complicated potions that spoiled if they were opened too early or by the wrong person. What if he ruined his father’s one chance at escaping the Dementor’s Kiss? What if he accidentally spilled it? And that was another thing—knowing the velvet pouch contained a small, glass vial was horribly nerve-wracking. He now kept it exclusively in his satchel, carefully tucked away at the bottom so as not to crush it under his textbooks. Whenever he accidentally bumped into a student in the busy corridors, the moment he was alone he checked the pouch to make sure that the vial hadn’t broken. Fortunately, it seemed quite robust.

Although they were no longer speaking, Harry was suddenly everywhere. Draco tried to ignore the awful pang in his chest whenever they passed each other on the way to class. Although his mouth went dry and his stomach twisted during Potions class as Harry fooled around with Weasley, Draco forced himself not to look up. It was painful enough that they were ignoring each other. What made it worse was that Harry seemed to have forgotten all about him. He spoke loudly with his friends during meals, and he was as lively as ever during their study groups. One evening, when Draco had been walking the grounds alone, he saw Harry and his friends traipsing down to the Quidditch pitch. They were singing some nonsensical tune and laughing uproariously. He remembered Harry’s insistent demand that they play against each other one last time. It felt as though that night at the pub had happened in another lifetime.

During their study groups, the silence between them was suffocating. They didn’t have much need to talk—Harry had always been the one who addressed the group as a whole, and so Draco kept to himself, quietly directing the students as they practiced. Usually, he found it highly amusing to correct the likes of Ron Weasley and Ernie Macmillan, but his heart wasn’t in it anymore. One evening, Weasley butchered the incantation he was working on so badly that he grew his parrot to five times its usual size as opposed to turning it into a quail. Draco, who had been passing by, shrunk the parrot before continuing on without comment. He had seen the looks on the Gryffindors’ faces, staring at him in confusion. In his mind, he dared them to say something. He was barely sleeping at night, and his exhaustion had eroded what little patience he had left. Wisely, they went back to work, although Draco felt Harry’s eyes boring into him.

He had started to spend more time sitting in the Quidditch stands. Up in the Slytherin box, he was shielded from the few students who braved the cold to walk through the grounds. Occasionally, he heard the sounds of Hagrid’s Care of Magical Creatures classes. From the dismayed screams and Hagrid’s insistent shouts that they stay calm, Draco suspected that he had unleashed Blast-Ended Skrewts upon another unsuspecting group of students. Safely concealed in the stands, Draco stared out at the pitch for hours, endlessly mulling things over. Sometimes, he went through his satchel, which now contained his old wand, his father’s pouch, and—he was embarrassed to admit—the Chocolate Frog card Daphne had given him in Hogsmeade. He had started to think of his satchel as the Bag of Sad Things. When he was feeling particularly masochistic, he would take out the card and study the small picture of Harry. Harry gazed fiercely back at him. He told himself repeatedly to just toss the stupid card: if Nott or Zabini found it in his bag, they would never let him hear the end of it. But in a strange way, Draco felt as though the card belonged there next to his old wand and his father’s vial. They formed a growing collection of reminders of his many failures.

The Quidditch pitch had become his sanctuary until one incredibly awkward afternoon when Harry and his friends suddenly burst out of the Gryffindor changing room just as Draco settled into his usual spot. He froze as he saw Harry, both Weasleys, Finnegan, and Thomas stroll onto the pitch. He hoped he wouldn’t be spotted, but, of course, he was as unlucky as ever. Ron Weasley almost immediately noticed him. Even at that distance, Draco recognized the look of displeasure on his face. The Gryffindors stood there stupidly, looking between him and Harry, until finally Draco's mind connected with his feet and he jumped up. He hurried down the stands. He wasn’t sure why—he hadn’t done anything wrong, or particularly embarrassing—but he felt absolutely mortified at being caught alone by Harry of all people. He tried to reason with himself as he rushed back to the castle, but by then he heard Harry and his friends calling to each other as they flew above the pitch. Those moments were perhaps the most miserable of all. Harry seemed so unbothered, as though nothing had happened between them. And, inevitably, Draco felt a sharp pang of jealousy when he saw Harry with his friends. Try as he might, he couldn’t seem to push away the absurd voice in his head whispering ‘ _mine_.’


	20. xx.

“Eat.” Pansy shoved a bowl of chowder towards him and pushed a spoon into his hand.

“I’m fine.”

"No, you’re not. Your mother’s going to kill me when she sees the state of you. You’re nothing but skin and bones these days.”

Draco rolled his eyes and let the spoon fall into the bowl. Daphne and Pansy exchanged a look, but he pretended not to see them. He had never really been queasy before, but nowadays it was as if he was perpetually nauseous. Tonight, the smells of clam chowder and freshly baked bread turned his stomach. He wrinkled his nose at Nott, who was lathering a thick slice of bread with what looked like an entire cup of butter.

“Look at Theo, he’s got an appetite,” Daphne said encouragingly.

“He’s a barbarian.”

Theo pulled a face at him but didn’t bother with a retort. They were all exhausted: Transfiguration had been gruelling that afternoon.

“Greg,” Millicent said suddenly. Unlike the rest of them, who had mostly given up on trying to engage Greg, Millicent was suddenly relentless in her attempts at drawing him out. “How is your internship going?”

There was a tense silence as they all stared at him. Greg looked up at her from his untouched bowl— _‘they never bother him about eating,’_ Draco thought irritably—and blinked.

When he said nothing, Millicent added, “You’re working at the Ministry, aren’t you?” Greg nodded stiffly.

Greg had been placed in an incredibly dull position in a lower-ranking office. Privately, Draco suspected that the placement was a punishment, while also serving to keep him from causing any trouble. While Harry had also spoken at Greg’s hearing, the fact remained that he had cursed several students in their seventh year at Hogwarts, and that he and his father had not switched allegiances at the end. It was a wonder they had managed to find a placement for him at the Ministry. Perhaps Harry had put in a word for him. Glancing over at the Gryffindor table, Draco studied Harry as he spoke animatedly with the girl Weasley. Before he could stop himself, jealousy reared angrily in his chest. He looked back down at his bowl, urging himself to take a bite, but now he felt sicker than ever.

Draco only realized that Daphne was addressing him when he felt Pansy elbow his side. “What—what’s that?”

Across from him, Daphne gave an apologetic grimace. “I was just wondering how you did in Flitwick’s practical.”

“Oh. Er. Fine.” He picked up his spoon and dragged it through the thick chowder.

“They’re so tough on us this year,” said Pansy. “I’m exhausted and it’s not even the end of first term. Blaise, did you manage to find those ingredients Slughorn was looking for?”

Zabini had started to answer her when there came a roar of laughter from the Gryffindor table. Draco looked up and froze. For some inexplicable reason, Seamus Finnigan was sitting in Harry’s lap. Surely it was a joke—Weasley had thrown his head back in laughter, while Finnigan pretended to make doe eyes at Harry. Harry, for his part, had flushed a pretty shade of crimson. As Finnigan wrapped his arms around his Harry’s neck, something in Draco snapped, and he stood abruptly from the bench. While the others were still watching the commotion at the Gryffindor table, Greg looked up at him and gave an imperceptible shake of his head. Draco forced himself to take a deep breath and unclench his fists. Silently, he grabbed his bag. He cast one last furious glare at Harry before storming out of the Great Hall.

He was so deep in thought that he hadn’t realized where his feet were carrying him until he found himself climbing up the stairs to the Owlery. To his disappointment, he didn’t see Callidus—he was probably out hunting. Winded from the climb, Draco threw his bag onto the floor and took up his usual spot on the window ledge. Very few owls were scattered up in the rafters. Draco wanted to shout, to let out all of his anger, but he thought that if he started to yell he might never stop. His hands were shaking. That familiar panic crept up his throat, expanding so rapidly in his chest that he felt as though he would explode. He dug his fingernails into his sweaty palms, trying to relax, but the sharp sting of pain did little to puncture his anxiety. What was wrong with him? He had never acted like this before. He’d been with plenty of other blokes, and usually he was able to forget about them within a week. He loathed himself for his inability to just push Harry out of his mind.

He wondered what Severus would say. God, it still hurt to think of him. Would it never get easier? Draco had always expected that they would survive the war together. That’s how it was supposed to happen. Sometimes, when he forgot to stop himself, Draco thought of Severus and how he had rebuffed his offers of help in his sixth year. Severus had been forced to kill Dumbledore because of him, because of his weakness. There was no justice in anything. He had played his part, he had done everything Dumbledore had asked, and still he died. A cruel, stupid, pointless death, with no one there to witness it but the Dark Lord.

It was still too painful to think about. Far too painful. And yet the agony cut through his anxiety and at least gave him a focal point on which to centre all of his anger. If Severus could see him now, Draco imagined he would scold him for being childish. For allowing himself to think for one second that it was a good idea to get close to Harry Potter, to let Harry use him however he wanted. To give in to the temptation to believe that something good might finally happen to him without bringing only more heartache. Of course, those kinds of thoughts were rather melodramatic—and Severus would have reprimanded him for that, too. At the realization, he couldn’t help but smile.

Draco jumped as he heard someone climbing the stairs. Horrified, he realized that he’d been crying; he hastily wiped his face with his sleeve when he saw Harry coming up the steps.

“Oh,” Draco said dully, “it’s you.”

It was dark in the Owlery; with any luck, Harry wouldn’t be able to tell that he’d been crying.

“Why are you up here alone?” he asked. When Draco said nothing, he tucked his hands into his pockets and leaned against the stone wall. “I never really come up here. Not since Hedwig…” He trailed off.

Hedwig had been Harry’s owl, he knew. But he didn’t want to talk about that. He didn’t want to talk to Harry at all. Heart pounding, he swung his bag over his shoulder and stood. “I was just leaving.”

“Wait. What you saw at dinner—that was nothing.”

“Great.”

“I just thought…you looked angry, and then you left…”

"Thought you’d pissed me off with that little show?” Draco spat. “What, you think that’s how I spend my time, Potter? Mooning after you and crying to myself whenever I see you fucking around with your stupid friends?” Never mind that it was true.

“Don’t,” Harry breathed, so quietly that Draco almost didn’t hear him. In the dark he looked ethereal, almost like a ghost.

“Just leave me alone.”

“I wanted to talk to you about your father,” Harry said. “I’ve been trying to get a hold of Shacklebolt. I think if you—”

“Would you stop?” he snapped. “Aren’t you ever tired of playing the bloody hero? Leave me and my family alone. You’ve done enough.”

Harry looked as though he had been slapped.

“Why won’t you just let it be?” he raged on. “Do you know what my father’s done, Potter? How many people he’s tortured? Killed?” Draco gave a bitter laugh. “If they want to give him the Dementor’s Kiss, let them. He’s earned it.”

“You don’t mean that,” Harry said quietly.

“Don’t I? You don’t know anything about me.”

Harry took a step forward. Panicked, Draco pulled out his wand, training it at Harry’s feet. “Don’t make me hex you. Please. Don’t make me.”

Harry glanced down at his wand and then back up at his face. Draco couldn’t make out his expression. “You wouldn’t. I know you.”

“You don’t!” he shouted. “You don’t fucking—you don’t—stop it.” Seething, Draco shoved his wand back into his pocket and pushed past Harry. The anxiety lurched in his chest as he made his way back to the Slytherin common room. A small part of him hoped that Harry would chase after him, would stop him and hold him and reassure him that everything was fine between them. But he didn’t. And so Draco threw himself into bed, tearing the curtains so violently around himself that he heard a sharp rip. He barely managed to cast an Imperturbable Charm around his bed before cradling his head in his hands and allowing the sobs to wrack his body. He was reminded once again how utterly alone he was.

***

As November dragged to an end, the other eighth-year Slytherins seemed fixated on making his life as miserable as possible. Out of nowhere, they had gotten it into their heads to spend an evening on the Quidditch pitch, never mind that it was well below freezing. They refused to go without Draco, although he didn’t see why. He knew that he was being sullen and moody; it wasn’t as though his presence added anything to the atmosphere. But Daphne insisted that he join them, and so one Friday evening he finally relented, if only to stop their nagging. As they traipsed down to the pitch, their freshly-cast Warming Charms producing a veritable bubble of heat around them, Draco listened quietly while the others debated whether the Firebolt’s successor might be released soon. By the time they arrived at the pitch, the sun had almost completely set.

Draco had never seen Daphne fly before; she wasn’t particularly graceful on her Cleansweep, but she kept up with them well enough. Nott and Zabini, like Draco, had been flying since they were young children. Pansy was outright dirty—she had no qualms with blagging or cobbing other players. Once in fourth year, she had given Draco a particularly nasty blow to the face, and he had been wary of flying with her ever since. Millicent was uneasy on a broom. She stayed low to the ground, hovering around the pitch as the others raced past her. Zabini found a Quaffle in the Slytherin changing room, and they spent an hour lobbing it back and forth. On his Firebolt, Draco was able to soar through the air with ease, turning with barely a touch of his handle. The wind whipped through his hair and cut across his cheeks, but it was bracing, and his fatigue seeped away as the frigid air cleared his mind. He even laughed outright when Daphne sent the Quaffle hurtling past her intended target, Pansy, and instead caught the side of Theo’s head.

Eventually, even their Warming Charms couldn’t break through the cold, and they decided to head back inside. As they landed, Millicent complained loudly that she was sore. Draco hardly heard her—he felt better than he had in days, as though his worries had been swept away by the brisk wind. In the changing room, Nott yammered away about the work he was doing with Flitwick. It had been too cold out to really work up a sweat, but the warm shower was wonderful on Draco’s frozen skin. For a moment, it felt like the old days. Playing Quidditch, teasing each other in the changing room, making plans for the weekend.

“I’ve just realized,” Nott said happily as he toweled his hair. “I’ve still got some firewhisky left from my last trip to Hogsmeade. We should have a drink, celebrate the end of the term.”

“It’s not the end of the term yet,” Draco pointed out.

“Close enough, isn’t it? Come on, one drink. We’ll use that empty classroom on the fifth floor.”

“I’m scared to think how many times that room’s been used since the start of term,” said Zabini.

Sniggering, Nott shot back, “Mostly by you, no doubt.”

“Fine then. One drink,” said Zabini. “It’s Friday, isn’t it? You’ll join us, won’t you, Draco?”

“Mmm.” Draco was rinsing his hair and hardly paying attention to them.

“Go check that the room is free. We’ll tell the girls and catch up,” said Blaise.

Draco heard Nott leave. He turned off the water and Summoned a towel from the bench. Now that he and Zabini were alone, he felt self-conscious. He wrapped the towel around his waist, trying not to listen to what the other man was doing. Looking pointedly away, he turned to his clothes, which he had laid out on the bench with his wand placed neatly on top. He started to clean his trousers with a Scouring Charm. Why had Nott left? Usually Draco didn’t want him around, but he was useful as a buffer.

He was not surprised when Zabini gripped his shoulders from behind. Draco froze as he felt warm, firm hands rub down his back before grasping his hips. He wanted to tell Zabini to stop, to leave him alone, but part of him was still soaring high on the ecstasy he had experienced flying. He placed his wand on top of his trousers, which were still sorely in need of an Ironing Charm, and turned to face Zabini. His expression was difficult to place—his eyes were as shrewd as ever, but there was none of his usual conceit.

“We shouldn’t,” Draco muttered, holding Blaise’s arms as though meaning to push him away. Ignoring him, Zabini pressed their lips together. There was something not quite right—a voice in the back of Draco’s head told him that it wasn’t Harry, and it wasn’t right if it wasn’t Harry—but he shoved that voice away and, in defiance, drew Zabini closer. That raw, unbridled anxiety was creeping up in his chest again, but he forced himself to focus on Blaise. He inhaled sharply as he felt Zabini’s hands trailing down his stomach, sweeping past his navel, and reaching lower…

Draco jumped violently when the door to the changing room banged open. He pushed Blaise away, already dreading the taunts he was about to face from Nott, when he realized that it was Ron Weasley standing at the door. He should have made to cover himself, or at least barked at Weasley to piss off, but for some reason he could do nothing more than gape at him.

“Can we help you?” Blaise asked coldly.

Weasley blinked at him and then turned back to Draco. His face hardened, and Draco had no time to react as he pulled out his wand.

“What are you playing at?” Blaise shouted angrily, grabbing Draco’s arm to pull him out of the way. But Weasley didn’t cast—he simply trained his wand on Draco’s chest, glaring at him.

“You fucking prick,” Weasley hissed. He wavered, shot another hateful look at Zabini, and then stormed out of the room, letting the door slam behind him.

“What was that?” Blaise asked wildly. “Why would he come in here?”

All of the warmth had left the room. Naked and cold, Draco pulled away from Blaise’s grasp and started to dress himself. Though he tried not to let it show, he was shaken.

“He was about to hex you!” Blaise cried, indignant. “Hex someone who doesn’t even have their wand on them, who’s _naked_! What a fucking coward. And Gryffindors are always going on about honour and bravery and all that shit.”

“Yeah.”

To Draco’s relief, Blaise pulled on his shirt as he continued his angry tirade. “I can’t _believe_ he pulled his wand out on you. If I’d had my wand, I’d have cursed him, no questions asked. You don’t _do_ that.”

In a cynical sort of way, Draco thought it rather amusing that Blaise had dropped his usual pretense of haughty indifference. It usually took much more than this to rile him up.

“Why’s he such a prude? I never thought Weasley of all people would be some sort of…some sort of bigot. What’s it matter to him?”

“Dunno.”

“Have you two slept together or something? Is that why he’s so upset?”

That hit a little too close to home. “He hates me, Blaise,” Draco snapped. “He always has. You know Weasley’s an absolute idiot. He probably walked into the wrong changing room and didn’t know how else to react.”

“Do you think he’ll tell people?” Zabini asked darkly.

“Who knows?” Draco buckled his belt and then sat down to pull on his socks. “What does it matter? I really doubt anyone cares about that sort of thing anymore.”

Draco tensed as Blaise came to sit next to him. They tied their shoes in silence, until Zabini said, “If your father finds out his son’s gay…They still don’t know, do they?”

He shrugged. “In a few months, my father won’t even remember he has a son.”

There was an awkward silence as Draco stood and donned his cloak. He was suddenly exhausted. All he wanted was to head back to the castle, crawl into bed, and forget any of this had happened.

“I _am_ sorry about that, you know,” Blaise said stiffly.

“Forget it.” Sentimentality had always been uncomfortable between them; it just didn’t feel right. “Let’s go, come on. They’ll be looking for us.”

They walked back to the castle in silence, Draco holding his Firebolt tightly in one hand as though it was a talisman. Not for the first time, he wondered why he didn’t just mount his broom and fly somewhere far away. There was nothing left for him here. He looked over at Blaise, whose expression was as indecipherable as ever. In a sense, he was glad that Weasley had interrupted them. He wasn’t sure how far he would have gone, but he felt so disoriented, so adrift, that he might just have used Zabini to try to chase away his unhappiness. And that would only land him in an even bigger mess.


	21. xxi.

Draco didn’t see Harry until Wednesday in Potions. He was hardly at meals anymore. He couldn’t stand the Great Hall: the noise, the bright lights, the crowds of people put him on edge. He felt like a rubber band, pulled so taut he was about to snap at any moment. He rarely slept. He roamed the grounds like a ghost, the Warming Charm so familiar to him that he could cast it without thinking. Increasingly, he spent dinner up in the Owlery, stroking Callidus’ soft plumage as he stared out the window. He would occasionally slip into the Great Hall long enough to grab a slice of toast or an apple. Nobody seemed to notice—Pansy and Daphne had given up on nagging him after he barked at them to leave him alone, and the others were too caught up with the ongoing Death Eater hearings.

Now that his father had been found guilty, the Wizengamot seemed determined to punish the others just as harshly. According to the rumours, British Aurors were being sent to other countries to round up Death Eaters who had attempted to flee. As Macmillan told anyone who would listen: “Loads and loads of visas, you can’t imagine, what a _nightmare_ for the Ministry. All these passports have to be issued before they can leave…and sending an Auror into another country on Ministry business isn’t as simple as just giving them a passport, let me tell you…”

In Potions, Harry was so late to arrive that Draco had started to suspect he meant to skip class entirely. His face was pale, his eyes dull, and he shot Draco one furious look before throwing himself into his seat next to Weasley. As Draco peeled the petals off his aconite, Weasley kept glaring back at him. To his chagrin, Blaise noticed immediately.

“Do you see Weasley staring at us?” Zabini asked him. He didn’t look up from his cutting board. “Fucking blood traitor.”

“You shouldn’t say shit like that.”

“I’d watch my back if I were you. He looks like he wants to kill you.”

“Maybe he’s jealous,” Draco sneered. “Surely anyone would rather kiss you than Granger.”

Zabini scoffed. “How flattering.”

They worked in silence for a moment, Draco finely slicing his aconite stems, until Zabini said, “God, I can’t stand him looking over here. What the hell is wrong with him?”

“Who knows?”

“How are you not bothered by all this?” Zabini glanced up at him, frowning. “You _hate_ Weasley. And did you see the look Potter gave you at the start of class? What have you done to piss them off?”

“Nothing.” Draco shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “I haven’t done anything.”

“Well, I don’t like it. Something’s off. You and Potter…what’s happened between you two?” Draco kept his expression carefully neutral. “You seemed to be getting on alright. That night at the pub you were great mates. So what’s happened?”

Draco rolled his eyes. “I don’t know. What do you want me to say? My father told me to get closer to him. I tried. It didn’t work out.”

“Still using that old line, are you?” Blaise muttered, picking up his knife again.

“It’s the truth,” he snapped.

“Uh huh.”

“What does it matter to you, anyway?” he asked scathingly.

Zabini looked up at him, startled. “Talk about hot and cold.”

Furious, Draco sliced viciously through his pile of stems and roots, pretending not to notice Blaise’s eyes on him. He froze when Zabini reached over and held his wrist. “ _Relax_ ,” he murmured. “Just watch yourself around them, that’s all I’m saying.”

Draco glanced up at Potter, who was, of course, staring their way. Fantastic.

***

The following evening, Proudfoot came to watch how their study group got on. They were still working on Transfiguration. Draco was pleased enough with the O.W.L.-level students’ progress: most of them were able to turn a Holland Lops into a hare and then back again. The N.E.W.T.-level students were more of a mixed bag. There were some who still struggled with transfiguring their hair colour, while others, like Granger, had moved on to altering their facial features and could even achieve it nonverbally. Draco spent much of the lesson helping a group of Ravenclaw sixth years, ignoring Proudfoot and Harry as they loudly discussed the group’s progress. By the end of the hour, Draco was tense and irritable.

“Draco?” Pansy came up next to him and placed her hand on his arm.

He sighed, rubbing his face. “I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m just tired.”

“Come on, let’s go back to the common room. I’ll tell you all about what Millicent said today in Divination, you’ll just _die_ when you hear.” She tugged on his arm and made to pull him out of the Great Hall, but he groaned as he saw Proudfoot approaching them.

“Mr. Malfoy,” he called, smiling as though he couldn’t see the scowl on Draco’s face. “Do you have a moment? I’d like to see you in my office.”

Draco’s spirits sunk further as he saw Harry following Proudfoot, looking as unhappy as he felt.

“But it’s late,” Pansy started.

“It’s fine.” Draco pulled his arm from her grasp and gave her what he hoped was an encouraging smile. “I’ll catch up with you in a bit.” When she looked as though she wanted to argue, he added in a low voice, “Stay up for me. I want to hear about Millicent.”

She grinned at him. “Alright, fine. But be careful.” She looked over at Harry meaningfully, raised her eyebrows at him, and then followed the other Slytherins out the Great Hall.

“Come on, then, gentlemen,” Proudfoot said cheerily, as though nothing had happened. They followed him to his office, Draco feeling incredibly uncomfortable as he walked next to Harry in silence. There was an awkward moment when Proudfoot opened the door and motioned for them to enter; they both eyed each other, unsure who should go first, until Proudfoot chuckled and said, “Go on, go on, I don’t keep anything dangerous in there.” Harry scowled at Draco and then brushed past him into the office. Glancing over at Proudfoot, who was still smiling amicably, Draco slipped in after him.

“Sit down, sit down,” Proudfoot was saying as he lit several torches along the walls. As Harry and Draco settled into the two available armchairs, Proudfoot conjured a third one for himself. He sat across from them, apparently oblivious to the tension in the room. “Now, then.” He sat back in his chair. “Tea? Either of you?” They shook their heads. “Well, I thought tonight went quite well. What do you both think?”

Draco refused to speak. After a moment, Harry said, “I think it went—fine.”

“They’re getting on in Transfiguration, aren’t they?”

“They are.” Harry nodded. “I think just about all the fifth years can at least manage trans-species Transfiguration if the species are close enough. As for N.E.W.T.-level…” He looked over at Draco, who was examining his cuticles.

“You have them doing human Transfiguration,” said Proudfoot. “Not an easy task. And what about nonverbal magic?”

“A few of them are able.” Harry frowned. “But not most. They still need to work on it.”

“And what’s next?”

“Ah…” Harry scrunched up his nose as he tried to remember. Draco felt a twinge in his chest and looked away angrily; it was such a stupid thing to be upset at, but those little quirks and faces had become familiar to him. “We were going to wrap up the term with Patronuses. I know it’s advanced magic, but we thought it would be fun for them to try. Something to work on over the holidays.”

Proudfoot nodded. “And you think them capable of producing a Patronus?”

Again, Harry looked at Draco; again, he looked away. “Some of them. Maybe not entirely corporeal, especially the fifth-year students, but we can at least get them started. In the D.A., we…” He trailed off, ducking his head in embarrassment.

“I’ve heard a lot about this D.A.,” Proudfoot mused. “I take it you weren’t a member, Mr. Malfoy?”

He shook his head.

“I see. And are you capable of producing a Patronus?”

“Not a corporeal one, sir.” He felt Harry’s eyes on him.

“Right. Perhaps Mr. Potter here can teach you.” After a terse silence, he added: “Well, I think it might be rewarding for them. Difficult, but rewarding. And it’s always fun to find out what form one’s Patronus will take, don’t you think?” Draco refused to look up at either of them. Proudfoot hesitated, and then asked softly, “Mr. Malfoy, is everything alright?”

“Fine, sir.”

“Only you’ve been very quiet this evening.” When he refused to answer, Proudfoot addressed Harry. “Has something happened between the two of you? Professor McGonagall and I were just saying that it’s good to see you putting aside your differences. But now it seems…something is wrong.”

“Nothing’s wrong, sir,” Draco answered.

“I hope not. It’s important for the other students to see you getting on.”

The tension was palpable. Draco’s fists were curled tightly in his lap. He urged himself to calm down, to breathe. He wanted desperately not to show Harry that he was bothered. Because Harry, of course, seemed completely unaffected by his presence, just staring at him as though he was a mildly interesting oddity. The thought made him sick.

“Can I go, sir?” He stood up and shouldered his satchel. “I’m tired. I didn’t sleep well last night.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Harry frown at that.

“Of course. Patronuses, then, until the holidays. And we’ll meet again in January to discuss your plans for next term.”

Draco rushed out of the office. He hurried down to the common room before Harry could catch up with him. He would have loved to go outside for a walk—the air in the castle felt stiff, hot, and oppressive. But Harry would know where to find him. In the common room, at least he was safe.

Pansy was sitting on the sofa closest to the fire. The room was almost empty.

“Where is everyone?” he asked, slumping down next to her.

“Hogsmeade,” she said. She was rewriting her Charms notes; Nott had knocked over a flagon of pumpkin juice onto them at dinner.

“What? It’s a Thursday night.”

“Most of them have a free period tomorrow morning. Don’t you?”

“I guess.”

She looked up at him, amused. “Since when are you such a stickler for the rules? You’re like a doting father this year.”

“Hardly.” He slumped lower into his seat.

“Your mother would kill you for sitting like that,” she said mildly as she returned to her work.

“Probably.” Looking to change the subject, lest they start discussing his parents, he nodded at her parchment and said, “You could just use magic to do that, you know.”

“Oh, I always mess that spell up. And I don’t want to ruin these again.”

“Let me do it.”

“It’s fine. I’m just about done.”

They sat in a companionable silence as she finished. Draco stared into the fire as it crackled, thinking back on the conversation in Proudfoot’s office. Was the tension between he and Harry so obvious? His father had always reproved him for being emotional. But he didn’t think himself capable of pretending to be friendly with Harry, of acting like nothing had happened. Because something _had_ happened, although he didn’t really understand it. Over the last couple of days, he had started to wonder if he was being too harsh, if Harry’s naïve curiosity was really worth pushing him away. Especially after the last night they had spent together. A lump formed in his throat as he tried not to think about that night. After everything they had shared, it seemed petty to cut Harry out of his life over one mistake. But now that Weasley had no doubt told him what he’d seen…and he knew Harry was a jealous person…he remembered clearly his reaction when Zabini had simply touched his arm, in front of everyone…as sick as he felt, he couldn’t stop the way his stomach clenched when he thought of Harry’s possessive fury, the way he had impressed upon Draco that he was _his_ …

He jumped when Pansy happily announced, “All done!” She folded the bit of parchment and tucked it into her bag. “Now. What did Proudfoot want?”

“He just wanted to ask what we had planned for the rest of the term,” said Draco.

“That’s not very exciting, is it?”

“Sorry to disappoint.”

“Oh, enough of your melodrama.” She leaned back and rested her head on his shoulder. “God, you’re skinny. I keep telling you to eat more. You’re all bony now. I swear you’ve lost so much weight in the last month.”

He snorted. “Anyway, tell me about Millicent.”

“Oh, God.” Pansy cackled viciously. “So we’re doing Tarot cards, right? And I’m reading Millicent’s. And she pulls the King of Swords. I’m absolute rubbish at Tarot, so I just go through my textbook trying to make something up. I tell her a man will be coming into her life soon, and he’s very clever, and authoritative, and a bit brooding. And guess who she thought I meant?”

Draco stared down at her.

“You!” she laughed, throwing her head back. “I tried to tell her, you know, I don’t really think she’s your _type_ , but she would _not_ listen. So then Trelawney comes over, and I tell her what I think, and she gets Millicent to pull another card. So she does, and she gets The Tower. And, again, I have no idea what any of these cards mean. So I tell her there’s going to be some big calamity, and it’s going to bring you both closer together.”

Draco groaned. “You’re kidding me.”

“She ate it up! And so did Trelawney! They absolutely loved it. So anyway, if you notice her hanging around more lately…”

“Why would you go and do that?”

“I panicked! I didn’t know what else to say! And before I knew it, she’d gone and guessed it was you, and she wouldn’t really listen to me after that.”

“Thanks a lot,” he huffed.

“Oh, you’re fine. As if you’ve ever had trouble pushing people away.”

“Weren’t you supposed to read my cards for your assignment this week?”

“You're right. Hang on.” Pansy sat up and rooted through her bag. She pulled out a worn, emerald deck. “These were my nan’s. They’re ancient. But I don’t think they like me very much. None of the readings I do make any sense.”

“Go on, then.”

“Alright.” She rearranged herself so that they were on opposite ends of the sofa. Sitting cross-legged, she shuffled the deck.

“What do you shuffle it for?”

“Er—I don’t know, really. I just always saw my nan do it.”

Draco sniggered.

“Right, here we go.” She fanned the cards and held them out to him, face down. “Pick just one for now.”

Draco studied the cards. They were indeed very old—several of them were worn at the corners, and one in particular looked as though it had been folded several times. “Which do I pick?”

“I don’t know. You’re supposed to feel drawn to one of them.”

He looked at them skeptically. Finally, he selected the card right in the middle. “Do I…look at it?” Pansy nodded. Flipping it over, he frowned. “The Two of Cups. I have no idea what that means.”

She shrugged. “Neither do I.”

“What good are you?” he laughed. “Check your textbook.”

“I honestly think it’s all rubbish, anyway,” she grumbled, dragging the large tome from her bag.

“So what did you take the class for, then?”

“It’s usually easy! You just make a bunch of stuff up. Every week I tell her I’m either going to meet my soulmate or suffer some horrible injury…she loves it.” Pansy flicked through the pages. “What was it again? The Two of Cups?” As she flipped through the book, she muttered, “Two of Cups…Two of Cups…Here. Partnership, unions, romance, sexual energy…the power created when two forces come together…look for connections in your life…creating a world between just the two of you…a physical and soul connection.” She looked up at him. “That’s about it.”

Draco felt as though a heavy stone had settled into the bottom of his stomach. Forcing his face into a neutral expression, he said, “Alright. And so…what’s your prediction?”

“I don’t know! I just write out what the book tells me.”

“So you don’t even interpret what the cards say? You just take the descriptions from the book? How is that supposed to tell me anything about my future?”

“Divination is very…imprecise!” she cried.

Draco looked down at the card. It depicted a man and a woman holding golden goblets.

“What’s that?” he asked, pointing at a strange, winged figure at the top. “It looks like a lion.”

“Oh! I actually remember that from my nan. It’s a Chimaera. It means that whatever’s about to happen, it’s going to require heroism. It might even be dangerous.” She took the card from him. “And below it…that’s two snakes forming a Caduceus. A Caduceus means 'exchange.' See?”

He leaned over and considered the Chimaera and Caduceus. Lion and snake. He felt rather sick.

“What’s going on?” Draco startled as Theo came up behind them.

“I’m doing a Tarot reading for my class,” Pansy said crossly. “I can’t wait until we go back to crystal balls next term.”

“Whose reading is that? Draco’s?”

“Never mind,” Draco said hastily, but before he could hide his card, Nott had reached out and snatched it.

“The Two of Cups? Who are you mooning over, Draco?”

“Hey!” Affronted, he forgot to pretend that it wasn’t his card.

“Cups…Cups always means emotions.” Nott smirked. “Two of Cups is about love...love based in friendship.”

Pansy took back the card. “Since when do you do Tarot readings?”

Theo shrugged. “My uncle used to do them all the time at family dinners. Bit annoying, actually.”

“Help me with my assignment, then!”

Nott eased himself into the armchair across from them. “Draco pulled that card?” He grinned. “Feeling emotional, are you, Draco? A bit weepy?”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Right, that’s enough.”

“So what’s the prediction?” Pansy asked, ignoring him.

Theo rubbed his jaw, looking at the card thoughtfully. “I don’t think it’s a prediction so much as advice.” Addressing Draco, he asked, “What was your question?”

“My question?”

“Usually before you start a reading, you ask the deck a question. Or at least, you give some idea of what you’re curious about.”

Pansy sighed, deflated. “Great. Maybe that’s been the problem.”

“Anyway, I guess it doesn’t matter. I think it’s advice for the future. You need to be willing to give a bit, and to take a bit. There's someone important coming into your life.”

Pansy turned to him, excited. “Draco! Who do you think it could be? Have you been seeing someone?”

“Of course I haven’t,” he said stiffly. In the back of his mind, he thought briefly of Harry, but that didn’t make any sense. Theirs was hardly a new relationship, and anyway, things between them were over.

“Trelawney isn’t going to like this,” Pansy said, grimacing. “Not enough death or fatal injuries.”

Nott laughed. “So play it up a bit. Make it sound dramatic. If Draco doesn’t make the right choice, a Chimaera’s going to come and eat him. Or make him sound like a long-suffering soul, wandering through Hogwarts, doomed to be alone. That sounds about right.”

“I’m right here, you know,” Draco reminded them impatiently.

But Theo went on: “Draco’s never willing to see anyone as an equal—have you ever noticed? He’s only ever known how to look up or down at people. He's spent the last few years being bossed around by You-Know-Who, and otherwise he fancies himself superior to everyone else.”

“Alright, I’m done.” He stood and gazed down at them with all the dignity he could muster. “You two keep discussing me. I’m going to bed.”

“But Draco, what if the cards are right?” Pansy asked. She was already shuffling her deck again. “What if there’s a big decision coming up? Or you’re about to meet your soulmate? Don’t you want to know?”

“I thought you said this was all nonsense.” She opened her mouth to reply, but he cut her off: “Make something up. Or write more about Millicent. I’m sure Trelawney would love that.”

He headed up to the dorm, his heart pounding. In truth, he thought Divination was rather ridiculous, and he especially had little use for Tarot cards. His mother once brought him to have his cards read at the height of her paranoia. As he changed into his pyjamas and crawled into bed, Draco tried to recall what the elderly card reader had predicted. Most of the cards had been either Cups or Swords, though he couldn’t remember which ones…it had all been very strange, and he remembered feeling silly. His mother, though, had been distraught after, speaking very little once they arrived back at the Manor. It was odd, thinking back on that year when his mother had feared he wouldn’t live to see his seventeenth birthday. But here he was. He had emerged from the war unscathed. Physically, at least. Mentally, emotionally, he was battered. But at least he was alive.

As he watched the green light from the window cast patterns on the ceiling, Draco allowed himself to wonder whether the Two of Cups had been referring to Harry. It seemed almost too good to be true—a new relationship built on friendship. But they _had_ been open with one another, hadn’t they? And now, everything was spoiled. He thought back on that morning when Harry found the pouch; he was no longer angry. He was just tired. Very, very tired, as though every day he was stretched just a little bit thinner. He wondered when he would finally snap. He didn’t have much left to give.


	22. xxii.

Draco meant to write to his mother, but he kept putting it off. He didn’t know what to say, and he was afraid to ask questions. In any case, it was easy to distract himself with schoolwork: it seemed as though the faculty had collectively decided to cram as much as possible into the final weeks before the Christmas holidays. Delacour was expecting three feet of parchment on conjuration, and Vector had set them the complicated task of composing their own numerical charts. Meanwhile, Sprout had them tending to their own Alihotsy trees, which required that they visit the greenhouse every other evening. And Babbling expected them to memorize two chapters of runes before they left for holidays.

“Naudiz is…give me a second.” Daphne sat back in her chair. They were in the library quizzing each other. Draco was surprised to find that he had nearly succeeded in learning all of the runes in chapter five.

“You had it earlier.”

“I know! I know I did.” Sighing angrily, Daphne rubbed her face. “Alright. I give up. What is it?”

“Need.”

“I knew that one!” she cried. “They both start with ‘n.’ God. Alright. Fine. Your turn. Er…” She turned to her textbook, flipping through the pages. “Dagaz.”

"Day.”

“I hate you,” she grumbled. “Alright: fehu.”

“Cattle.”

“…and?”

He thought for a moment, and then said, “Wealth.”

"Right again,” Daphne said glumly.

“How about ehwaz?”

Draco watched as Daphne muttered under her breath, eyes shut tight as she concentrated. Finally, she cracked open an eye. “…horse?”

“That’s right.”

Though it had annoyed him before, Draco had to admit that her squeals of excitement were oddly endearing. Madam Pince hushed them angrily. They sniggered, leaning over their textbooks in case she came to find the source of the disturbance.

“You’re getting better,” he said quietly.

“I’m trying. I keep telling myself we’re almost at the end of term.”

“I can’t believe she has us memorizing all this in two weeks.”

“She’s mental.” Daphne looked up and, not spotting Madam Pince, she added, “Mum’s really pleased with my progress, though. When she writes me, she puts runes at the end of her letters and has me translate them when I write back. Can you imagine? I wonder what it’s like having normal parents.”

“I wouldn’t know,” he scoffed.

Daphne hesitated, and then asked, “How are your parents doing?”

“Fine, I guess. I don’t really hear from them now. We tend to operate under the assumption that no news is good news.”

“Right. Of course.”

Looking to change the subject, he asked, “What’s happening with your…music…thing?”

“Oh!” She perked up at that. “My class is going _so_ well. And do you remember I told you about that music school in Dublin?”

Draco nodded. He did remember. Vaguely.

Daphne leaned in conspiratorially and said, “I’ve applied! If I do well in my N.E.W.T.s, it shouldn’t be a problem. There’s an audition process, but that’s not until January. I’m going to tell my parents I’m visiting a friend in Malahide. For the audition, I’m playing a piece I composed myself. Maybe you can listen to it sometime!”

“Er—yeah, sure.”

“I’m so excited. That’s how I get through all this.” She waved vaguely at their Runes notes. “I just keep telling myself to stick with it, get through the year, and it’ll be worth it. And…” Daphne glanced around the library and then lowered her voice further. “If I tell you this, you have to swear not to say anything to anyone. Especially not my sister. Please?”

“Alright.” Who was Draco going to tell? It wasn’t as though he spoke to Daphne’s sister, or anyone else who might be interested in her career ambitions.

“My grandmother’s absolutely ancient—she’s well over a hundred now. And she has some money put aside for me as an inheritance, right? Well, I went to see her the other weekend, and she said she’s giving me the money now, for school! If I get in, of course,” she added hastily.

“You will.”

“You’ve never even heard me play!” she said, although he could tell she was pleased. “Well, anyway, that’s the plan. As soon as I’m done at Hogwarts, I’m taking the money and I’m leaving.” She gave a breathy laugh. “I’ll be on the run! And then eventually, once my mum and dad aren’t so angry anymore, I’ll tell them where I’m at. By that point, school will have started, and there’ll be nothing they can do about it.”

Draco sat back, considering her. “So, you’re a Slytherin after all.”

She gave him a sly grin. “‘Course I am. Some of us are just a bit more subtle about it.”

“I’m glad for you,” he said earnestly.

“And what about you, then?”

“What about me?”

“Your plans? For once you leave Hogwarts?”

Draco gave a heavy sigh. “I haven’t really thought much about it. I guess I’ll travel a bit. We have a lot of family in France, in Iberia…I don’t think any of them will really want me staying with them, but who knows…”

"And work in a foreign Ministry?”

“I guess so.” Draco pulled his textbook closer, hoping to end the conversation.

“I know you don’t want to hear it,” Daphne said slowly, “but you _are_ a good teacher, Draco.” He snorted. “I’m being serious. I’ve learned loads from you this year. We all have. You’re not the most…er…nurturing person, but look how far everyone’s come thanks to you. Last week, the way you explained nonverbal Switching Spells to me…I finally got it. You make me feel like I can actually manage it.”

“It’s just practice,” he grumbled.

“It’s not. Or, if it is, you’re the one encouraging us. Showing us _how_ to practice, what to practice. You’re brilliant.”

“You’ll have me crying if you don’t stop,” he said drily.

Daphne laughed. “Alright, fine. But you should think about it.”

He nodded at his textbook. “Shall we get back to this, then?”

“You think she’ll quiz us next week?”

“Probably.” Draco shrugged. “Let’s see. How about…” He was about to ask her for the translation of ‘mannaz’ when he caught sight of Harry striding towards them. His stomach constricted painfully, and he felt that familiar pang in his chest.

Daphne looked up and followed Draco’s gaze. “Oh, Harry! Hi! Are you alright?”

Her question was appropriate—Harry’s lips were pursed and his expression was drawn. He had his hands stuffed into his pockets. He gave Daphne a tight smile and then said to Draco: “Can I talk to you for a second?”

“I guess.” Draco nodded at the seat next to Daphne, but Harry shook his head.

“Alone? Sorry,” he said to Daphne.

“Not at all! You two go ahead. I need to revise this section, anyway.” She smiled encouragingly at Draco, who rolled his eyes and followed Harry. They made their way to his usual spot in the Reference Section.

“What is it?” he asked, crossing his arms as they came to the end of the row.

“It’s…” Harry sat down and ran his fingers through his messy hair. Up close like this, he looked as though he hadn’t slept in days. “I’m going to tell you something. But you can’t panic. I need you to stay calm.”

“Alright. What is it?”

Harry looked up at him, saying nothing.

Draco felt incredibly vulnerable, alone with Harry like this. He wanted to walk away. He wanted to go back to Daphne and quiz her on runes as though nothing had happened. He wanted to push Harry, to shout at him, to demand why he had insisted on coming into his life in the first place when now he was even more miserable than before. Impatient, he snapped, “Out with it, Potter. I haven’t got all day.”

Harry frowned at him. “It’s your father. They’re going to schedule the…” He faltered, took a steadying breath, and then continued: “They’re moving his hearing up to January fifth. He and his lawyers won’t find out until a week before. And then, at the hearing, they’re going to give him to the dementors. They’re afraid he’s going to try to escape, so they’re going to give him the…the Dementor’s Kiss then.”

Draco gaped at Harry, unable to speak. A part of himself that he absolutely loathed wanted to just fall apart right there and dissolve into Harry’s arms. Instead, he cleared his throat and forced himself to say, “Right. Right then. Well…thank you for telling me.”

“We have to do something.”

“No. We don’t. But…thank you.”

Harry opened his mouth to protest but Draco turned away. Once again, he felt a lump in his throat—he was so sick of crying, so exasperated with himself for being weak. He returned to the table where Daphne was sitting, muttering runes to herself as she hid the translations with her hand.

"Draco!” she said. “What was that about? What did he—” Catching sight of his face, she blanched. Draco threw himself into the chair across from her. His face felt hot, and he knew his eyes were watering.

“It’s nothing. Just—just the study group. We’re doing Patronuses.” To his own ears his voice sounded unsteady.

“Oh.” She stared at him, clearly unconvinced. “Well, that…that’ll be nice.”

“Yeah.” As he busied himself with putting away his things, he thought that he would never be able to conjure a Patronus again. Every last happy memory he had was ruined. “If you don’t mind, I’m really tired. I think I’m going to…I’ll just…”

“Of course, of course,” she said hastily. “But Draco..” She reached out and touched his hand. “You know you can talk to me, right? We aren’t that close, I guess, but…”

“Yeah.” Daphne's kindness was going to undo him; he hurried out of the library before she could say anything else. Heading for the Owlery, his heart pounded ferociously in his chest. He could hardly see the other students around him. At one point, he thought he heard someone calling him, but he didn’t turn back. What was he going to do? Harry had said not to panic. But how could he not? His father was going to be blindsided. Should he try to warn him? How would that be possible? The Ministry was checking the Manor’s post. He had written his father surreptitious letters in the past, but he doubted their mail had been so carefully scrutinized before. It would be incredibly reckless to write. If the Ministry realized what they were up to, he and his father would be in a huge amount of trouble. But what other choice did he have? If he could just warn his father, perhaps there was a small chance his lawyers could intervene. At any rate, he couldn’t just sit around and do nothing.

Draco climbed the stairs to the Owlery two at a time. Although Callidus was sleeping high up in the rafters, given his size he wasn’t difficult to spot. Draco decided to let him sleep a bit longer. He sat in his usual spot on the window ledge and pulled out his inkpot, a quill, and a few feet of parchment. Addressing his mother, he started by outlining his classes and his assignments. He rambled on about Transfiguration and Charms, detailing the spells they were learning in as dull a manner as possible. Then, he described the study groups, listing all of the students he had coached and his thoughts on the curriculum for next term. Before moving on to finish with news regarding his friends, he added: “I spend a lot of time in front of the fire in the common room.” And, in concluding his letter, he wrote: “Tonight, everyone’s going out to Hogsmeade, but I’ll be staying in. I expect them to be back around two in the morning or so, but that’s too late for me: I have a Potions assignment to finish.”

It wasn’t his best work, but he was too agitated to think up something cleverer. Rolling the parchment into a tight scroll and putting away his things, Draco called up to Callidus. He knew the owl had heard him; he ruffled his wings angrily and turned away from the sound of Draco’s voice. Draco called him again—several other owls hooted at him irritably. Finally, Callidus cracked open his eyes, gave a low, angry hoot, and fluttered down to Draco’s side.

"I know, I know, I’m sorry,” he muttered. “I know you’re sleeping. But I need this delivered immediately. It’s urgent.”

Callidus gave him a reproachful look and held out his leg.

“Come to breakfast tomorrow morning. You know Daphne spoils you.”

Callidus took off. Checking his wristwatch, Draco saw that it was nearing four. Surely he could make it to Wiltshire in time. The question was whether his parents would understand his hidden message. With a sinking feeling, he realized that they might not even read his letter at all. And then what would he do? Keep writing them? Surely the Ministry would be suspicious. But for now, there was nothing else to be done.

***

As his father’s head popped into the flames promptly at two o’clock, Draco felt a strange mixture of relief and dread. He had spent a long, miserable evening praying that everyone would vacate the common room. The eighth-year Slytherins had been almost impossible, lounging on the sofas and playing endless games of chess. Finally, Draco had taken inspiration from his letter and suggested they all head to Hogsmeade. By some miracle, they listened, leaving him to enjoy the silence of the common room as the younger students slowly headed off to bed.

“Draco,” his father snarled. “What the hell is going on? Your mother’s all in a panic. She thinks something horrible has happened to you. Do you have any idea what I had to go through to get the Floo up and—”

“You need to listen to me,” Draco cut him off. He nearly cowered at the furious look on his father’s face, but he pressed on. “I don’t know when the others will be back. And you need to hear this.”

“Go on, then,” he growled.

“Your hearing’s going to be moved up. It won’t be in February. It’ll be January…” He frowned, trying to remember. “January fifth. They won’t tell you or your lawyers until a week before.”

“They change these things all the time,” his father said coolly.

"No, _listen_. They’re worried you’re going to escape. They plan to give you to the dementors at that hearing. They’re going to use the…the…” Draco couldn’t bring himself to say it.

Although it was difficult to see his father’s expression in the flickering flames, it seemed to be rather unchanged. “None of this is new. There are all kinds of rumours coming out of the Ministry. Every single person working there thinks they know what the Wizengamot is planning.”

“But it’s true. I know it is. The person who told me, they would definitely have the right information. And they have no reason to lie to me.”

“And who would that be?”

“I can’t say.”

“You can’t say.” His father scoffed. “Well then, forgive me if I don’t take your panicked ramblings very seriously.”

Exasperated, Draco only just controlled the impulse to shout. “You have to believe me. It’s the truth. I know it is.”

“Draco. You’re losing your head. I can assure you that if there were any changes in my case, my lawyers would—”

“It’s Harry Potter,” he said. “Harry Potter told me.”

His father’s mouth snapped shut. They glared at each other, Draco’s heart pounding. Finally, he saw fear creep into his father’s eyes. “And why,” he said, so quietly that Draco had to strain to hear him, “would Harry Potter tell _you_ of all people what’s happening in the Wizengamot?”

“I don’t know,” he lied. “The other day, I heard him telling his friends how much he hates the dementors. He doesn’t think they should be guarding Azkaban. So maybe he…he…he’s doing it out of principle? He’s a Gryffindor. I don’t know. But I don’t think he was lying. Why would he?”

“Mr. Potter and I have hardly been on friendly terms,” his father said. “Perhaps he hopes to trick us into doing something stupid.”

“But why would he? If they’re planning to use the Dementor’s Kiss, they have enough evidence against you. And anyway, Har—Potter was a witness for Mother and I. Remember? At our trials.”

“Of course I remember,” his father said. “But that doesn’t change…it doesn’t mean…” His face fell oddly flat. “So you believe him, then? You think he’s telling the truth?”

"I do,” he said fervently. “I _know_ he is, Father. Potter’s garbage at Occlumency. He can’t hide anything. And I could tell he was being honest.”

“In that case, you need to guard the package with your life.”

"Package?”

“The package from Rochefort,” his father said impatiently. “You still have it, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“That package is my last hope,” he said. “More than ever, you need to protect it. Keep it with you at all times. And then bring it to me when you come for the Christmas holidays.”

“I wish you would tell me what it is,” Draco said sullenly.

“That isn’t for you to know.”

“How can you say that?” he demanded, leaning forward in his armchair. “How can you still treat me like a child, when I’m here risking my neck for you, again?”

"How dare you be so rude,” his father hissed.

“Tell me what it is.” Unexpectedly gripped by a surge of courage, Draco said, “Tell me, or I won’t bring it to you.”

Even through the fire, Draco could feel his father’s fury. After a tense moment of silence, he said, “Fine. You want to know what’s in there? Open it.”

Slowly, Draco reached for his satchel and retrieved the crushed velvet pouch. By now, of course, he knew what it contained, but he pretended to be surprised when he pulled out the tiny glass vial. “What is it?” he asked, staring at the familiar vial in his palm.

“A Portkey.”

His heart stopped. “What?”

“A Portkey. Surely you know what that is?”

“But I don’t—I don’t understand.”

His father gave a frustrated sigh. “It’s a Portkey, charmed to respond only to my touch. The moment I touch it, I—and whoever else is touching me—will be transported out of the Manor.”

“But Portkey creation is regulated by the Ministry,” he said at once.

“And fortunately for us, this Portkey was enchanted by someone at the Ministry.”

“But how?” When his father didn’t answer, he changed tacks. “Where is it going to take you?”

“I don’t know. We decided that it would be best for your mother and I to have as little information as possible. Who knows, someday the Ministry might decide to send someone actually competent in Legilimency.”

“So you’re going to use the Portkey,” he said slowly, “and escape.”

“Correct.”

“But how will you live? How are you going to find work?”

“I have the funds from your account,” his father said. “That should sustain us for a while. Eventually, when we’ve secured a more permanent residence, we’ll sort out the other details.”

“And then what about…me?”

“Your mother, of course, hopes you’ll join us.” His father sniffed. “But the choice is yours.”

"But, Father…if you leave, you’ll be breaking about a hundred laws. If they catch you, there’s no way you’ll escape Azkaban, or…” He still couldn’t say it.

“Well then, I’ll just have to avoid being caught, won’t I?”

“But the vial…I…” He looked down at it. “What’s in it, then?”

“A Cure for Boils. As I've said, if someone were to ever find it on your person, they wouldn’t be suspicious.”

"But I don’t have boils.”

“Exactly.”

Draco didn’t know what else to say. The vial felt heavy in his hand. He stared down at it, speechless, when suddenly he heard voices behind him. “The others are coming,” he gasped, shoving the vial into the pouch and throwing the lot into his satchel. “You have to go.” Instantly, his father’s face disappeared.

“Draco!” Pansy shouted. He could smell the firewhisky already. “What are you doing? We thought you’d be asleep.”

“Just heading up,” he said, turning around as the others fell in behind her.

“He’s down here brooding,” Nott said mockingly. Draco could have sworn he saw Theo’s eyes glance towards the fire, but he was quickly distracted by Pansy, who leaned on him for support.

“Draco!” Daphne’s face was red as she sauntered towards him. “Are you alright, Draco? I’ve been so worried about you. You should have come out with us tonight.”

“I’m fine.” He didn’t want to have this conversation in front of the others. “You should go to sleep. Are you alright getting to bed on your own?”

Daphne let out a wail so sharp that he jumped. “Draco!” she cried, flinging her arms around him. “I don’t care what people say about you! You’re so kind. Oh, I wish you could just be happy.” She held onto him tightly. “I just wish you and Harry Potter would make up. It’s _so_ sad, I really wish you would just go to him and—”

“I’m fine. Really, I’m fine. Please, get to bed, you’re going to wake everyone up.” He pulled her towards the staircase leading up to the girls’ dormitory, purposely avoiding the others’ stares. “Go on. Up to bed.”

Finally, Daphne relented, disentangling herself from his arms and scurrying upstairs. Avoiding Pansy’s eyes, Draco climbed the stairs to his own dormitory, followed by Nott and Zabini. Greg was already asleep.

"You missed a good time, Draco," Zabini drawled as he pulled off his shirt. Draco looked away.

"You won't believe what Daphne did, though," Nott laughed. "Guess who she invited to come along with us? Go ahead and guess."

"I haven't the faintest idea." Trying to appear as casual as possible, Draco opened his trunk and gently tucked his satchel in-between his textbooks.

"Dean Thomas!" Nott announced gleefully. "She's never been--well, you know how Daphne is, but _Thomas_? He's a half-blood."

"Raised as a Muggle his whole life, I've heard," Zabini sniffed. "None of his siblings can use magic, did you know?"

Theo sneered. “I can't imagine what she's thinking. And how did they start talking?"

"They have Care of Magical Creatures together," said Zabini. "Just think what her parents will say when they find out."

"So what do you think, Draco?" Nott held onto the wardrobe as he pulled on his pyjamas--he was rather unsteady.

Draco shrugged. He could hardly even focus on their conversation; his hands were trembling, and he was having a hard time catching his breath.

"It's too bad, isn't it?" Theo went on. "Daphne being a pure-blood and all. Ah, well. Can't be helped, I guess."

"It's not as though they're getting married tomorrow," Draco said tersely.

Nott rolled his eyes. "I know that. But if you'd seen them--whispering together the whole night, as if no one else was there. She's barking mad."

"I imagine it must be difficult, seeing everyone else pair off when nobody will even look your way," Draco snapped.

He had meant to shut Nott up, but instead he laughed and tossed a shoe at Draco's head. It missed by several feet.

“And what about you, Draco?” Zabini asked. He was checking his face in a handheld mirror. “What was Daphne saying about Potter?”

“I have no idea. She’s pissed.”

Theo hesitated. Evidently, he remembered the last time he had tried teasing Draco about Harry. Blaise, however, was bolder: “Go on, tell us, Draco. Why are you always keeping secrets from us?”

"As if you aren’t,” he muttered darkly.

“Who’s keeping secrets?” Nott demanded. “No secrets in this dorm! Tell me.”

Draco threw Zabini a furious look. “There _are_ no secrets. He’s just being a prat.”

“Oh, there might be some secrets,” Blaise said, leering at him. “Theo’s right. We’ve all been friends for how long, now? I don’t think we should hide anything from each other.”

“You two enjoy your pillow talk, then,” Draco said sourly. “I’m going to sleep.” He ignored their sniggering as he climbed into bed and ripped the curtains shut. Before long, their inane conversation subsided, and Theo’s snores filled the room. As if his life wasn’t complicated enough, he was stuck in a room with absolute idiots.


	23. xxiii.

The other eighth-year Slytherins were subdued the next day. Hungover, they lounged around the common room, their textbooks open but nobody studying. Nott and Zabini sat on one sofa, each sipping on a hangover remedy from Hogsmeade. Pansy was slumped next to Draco; she groaned whenever someone spoke too loudly. Millicent was still upstairs sleeping. And, although she hadn’t meant to cause trouble last night, Draco couldn’t help but feel a small twinge of satisfaction each time Daphne complained of her headache. She sat on the floor, at Draco's feet, slowly sorting through her collection of Chocolate Frog cards.

“Who’s this?” Daphne asked, holding up a card for further inspection. “Dorcas Wellbeloved…Founder of the Society for Distressed Witches…huh…”

“I haven’t got her,” Nott said from the sofa.

“I’ve got three of Gideon Crumb, if you want him,” she offered.

“S’alright.”

Privately, Draco thought they were all being rather melodramatic, but he kept his thoughts to himself. It suited him that the others were quiet for once, because he had an awful lot on his mind. The vial was a Portkey. He couldn’t believe it. He could very well be sent to Azkaban if they were caught…but if they weren’t, his father and mother might have a chance at living out the rest of their lives peacefully. And what about him? He felt guilty for admitting it, but he didn’t want to escape with his parents. The thought of being stuck with them in some strange place, where they might not know anyone, where perhaps they would have to hide for months and months…the prospect was miserable. But what would he do if they left without him? Surely, the Ministry would interrogate him. They might even have the legal right to use Veritaserum.

He was angry with his father. Once again, he was in an impossible situation, where protecting his parents meant putting himself at risk. He was angry with himself, too. He should have learned by now not to question his father or delve too deeply into his affairs. It never ended well. If only he could be Obliviated, and go on living his life without knowing that the vial was a Portkey. A Portkey. How had his father managed it? Who was his contact at the Ministry? And how could they be certain that the Portkey would work, that it wasn’t a trap? His head spun as these thoughts whizzed by. It was as though he himself was hungover—dizzy, nauseous, and exhausted.

"Is anyone going to the party tonight?" Zabini asked. He looked a bit less peaky--perhaps his remedy was working. "It's in the Room of Requirement again...almost all the eighth years are going."

"Not me," Nott groaned. "I'm having an early night. And I'm never drinking that much again."

"I thought I'd go for a bit," Daphne said mildly. "Dean...he really wants to go, so..."

Draco felt Pansy stir next to him. She caught his eye and gave him a shrewd look; he shrugged and glanced away.

“Shall we go up for lunch, then?” Daphne asked. The others grumbled but slowly dragged themselves out of their seats. Draco sat, unmoving, watching as Daphne carefully tucked her Chocolate Frog cards into her leather organizer.

“How have you sorted your cards, Draco?” she asked. When he didn’t answer, she went on, “I had them all by last name, but now I'm rearranging them by category first. So, look, I’ve got inventors, and then musicians, then Quidditch players…philosophers…some of them fit into more than one category, though, that’s where it’s tricky…” She sighed, rubbing her temple. “God, my head hurts.”

He snorted. As she snapped her organizer shut, Daphne looked over at the others, who were ambling out of the common room. “Draco,” she said in a low voice. “Can I ask you something?”

“Mmm?”

“Is there any way you can come to the party tonight?” At the look on his face, she said hastily, “I know what happened last time. And I’m sorry. That was—that was awful. But…I was hoping to go with Dean, and I just don’t know…” She trailed off, looking put out.

“Don’t know what?”

“How everyone will react,” she said. “Last night, it was a bit awkward. And, well, tonight the Gryffindors will be there, and Dean doesn’t really…”

Draco gave a deep, long-suffering sigh. He wanted to refuse. Every scrap of sense he had told him to refuse. But looking down at Daphne’s unhappy face, he felt a pang of sadness for her. He almost surprised himself when he said, “Alright. Fine. But I don’t know how _I’ll_ make it any better.”

“You will!” she said, brightening. “Nobody will bother us with you around. And I thought maybe, if it looks like you’re okay with it, then the others might be, too.”

“Yeah.”

“You’re…you’re okay with it, right?”

Taking pity on her, he smiled. “Yeah. Of course I am. Thomas…he’s alright. Although, er…” He looked down at his hands, unable to meet her eyes. “We have a bit of history, at the Manor…”

"We talked about that,” Daphne said at once. “About how you saved Harry. And I told him, you know…that you're my friend.”

Uncomfortable, Draco rose to his feet. “Yeah. Well, I never really had the chance to, er, talk to him properly after…everything. But as far as you two go…of course I’m fine with it.” At the look of gratitude on her face, he held up his hand. “ _Don’t_ start crying again.” She gave a watery laugh. “Come on, let’s go to lunch before the others think we’re up to something.”

***

All things considered, attending the party wasn’t his worst idea. Draco was so anxious about how people would react to his presence, and whether the night would be a repeat of the last party, that he had very little time to worry about his father and the wretched Portkey. In the end, none of the other eighth-year Slytherins joined them, which suited him fine.

“Aren’t you hungover from last night?” he asked Daphne as they climbed the winding staircase.

“Oh, no, I’m alright,” she said. “Just a headache, and that’s about cleared up. Dean _really_ wanted to go tonight. I think to sort of, you know, show everyone that we’re…”

"Together.”

She giggled. “I guess so.”

“And how come you didn’t tell me about all this?”

“I was going to! At the library. I was working up the courage,” she admitted. “But then you left, and you seemed really upset, so…”

“I was only joking," he said. "It’s not like you owe me some sort of explanation.”

“Well, no, but…” Daphne hesitated. Skipping over a trick step with ease, she said, “It sort of all happened at once.”

“Oh?”

“We have Care of Magical Creatures together,” she explained. “And a few weeks ago, I noticed Dean sketching the Porlocks…and it was good, _really_ good, he’s so talented…”

Draco held out his arm as the staircase before them suddenly shifted. Daphne grasped the railing, smiling at him. “Thanks. I always forget that one moves. But anyway…so we started talking about how he’s very artistic, and how I love music, you know…”

“And then?”

Daphne blushed. “Well, last weekend he invited me out to Greenhouse One with him. He’s been sketching Moondew for a while now. So I went, and, er…”

Draco sniggered. “Fell for that old trick, huh?”

“It wasn’t a trick!” she cried. “He _was_ sketching! And it was very good, I’ll have you know!”

"Oh, yes? I’m sure you’ve hung it above your bed.” He must have been right—she shrieked and pushed him playfully as the staircase swung back around.

“You’re ridiculous!”

“Right, so tell me, how did he seduce you?” Draco teased her.

“You’re nosier than Pansy!” She made to swat at him again but missed.

“I certainly am.”

Even without most of the Slytherins in attendance, the Room of Requirement was filled with students. It was dark inside, illuminated only by candles floating mid-air, and it took a moment for Draco's eyes to adjust. He had barely stepped through the door when several things happened at once. First, Daphne squealed and race off towards Dean Thomas, who was standing by the trestle table with Finnegan. Second, Draco heard someone call his name. He looked over and, to his surprise, saw Terry Boot waving at him. Not sure what else to do, he was about to head over to greet Boot when Ron Weasley was suddenly storming towards him, face contorted in fury. Before Draco could react, Weasley shoved him. Several people shouted in alarm.

“You!” Weasley growled. “How the hell can you show your face here?” Granger was at Weasley’s side, her face red as she tugged on his arm.

“Leave me alone, Weasley,” Draco said quietly.

“Get the fuck out of here,” Weasley snapped. “I can’t stand to look at you.”

“Let him be!” Daphne shouted, pulling at Weasley’s other arm. “Draco’s done nothing wrong!”

Weasley rounded on her, his face turning an even deeper shade of purple. “You don’t know, then? Don’t know what he did to Harry?”

"Harry?” Daphne looked over at Draco, confused. “Where _is_ Harry?”

“In our bloody dorm!” Weasley yelled. “Where he always is. Because of this…this…” He snarled angrily in Draco’s direction.

Draco was mortified. The entire room had gone still, and everyone was staring in their direction. Somehow finding his voice, he said, “I-I’ll go. It’s fine.”

"No, Draco, don’t go,” Daphne pleaded, pushing past Weasley to reach for him.

“Really, it’s fine,” he muttered. “You have a good time.” He glanced at Weasley, who now looked as surprised as he did furious, and said, “Sorry. I’ll go.”

Draco’s chest hurt. It was hard to breathe. He could feel everyone’s eyes on him as he slipped back out through the door and closed it softly. His hands were trembling; he shoved them into his pockets. He absolutely hated fighting. The moment someone turned their anger on him, he felt as though he would crumble to dust. He had spent too many years listening to people shouting, knowing that at any moment the argument could turn deadly. Head bowed, he hurried down the corridor, nearly reaching the bend when he collided into someone.

“Sorry, sorry,” he gasped. “I didn’t mean to—Harry?”

As if Draco wasn’t already on the verge of one of his episodes, Harry was standing right there, staring at him curiously. He thought back on what Weasley had said, and his heart twisted with a horrible squeeze of guilt. “Why…why aren’t you at the party?”

Harry shrugged. “Why aren't you?”

“Well, I was just there.”

“So why are you leaving?”

“It doesn’t matter. See you.”

He made to push by, but Harry gripped his arm. “What’s wrong? Something’s wrong.”

“It’s nothing,” he lied. “Go on to the party.”

“I’m not going.”

He sighed in exasperation. Standing so close to Harry did nothing to improve the panic coursing through him. “Fine. Whatever. Have a good night.”

“Tell me what’s wrong.”

Feeling as though he was trapped, Draco ripped his arm from Harry’s grasp. “Go ask your friend Weasley.”

Harry’s eyes went wide. “Why? What’s he done to you?”

“Nothing. He’s just…angry. And asked me to leave. I didn’t want to be there, anyway, so it doesn’t matter.”

Harry frowned. “Why did you go in the first place, then? You hate that sort of stuff.”

Draco forced himself to take a deep, steadying breath. This was ridiculous. “I don’t know. Daphne asked me to come. She’s started seeing Dean Thomas…and she wanted me there, in case the others…” He shook his head.

Harry had a very odd look on his face. They eyed each other, Draco urging his hands to stop trembling, when Harry suddenly seemed to make up his mind. “Come with me.”

Draco felt powerless to resist as Harry dragged him through the corridor. He already knew where they were headed. At the Fat Lady’s Portrait, Harry said, “Fred Weasley,” and pulled him through the portrait hole. It was déjà vu as Harry dragged him up to the empty boys’ dormitory. Draco felt oddly as though he was intruding, as though he didn’t belong anymore.

“If Weasley finds me here…” he muttered as Harry closed the door.

“Don’t worry about him.” Harry nodded towards his bed. “Sit.”

Not knowing what else to do, Draco complied. Looking around nervously, he saw that the room hadn’t changed much at all since the last time he had been here. Draco expected Harry to sit next to him, but instead he sat across from him on Weasley’s bad, cross-legged. As they faced each other, Draco’s stomach performed all sorts of gymnastics. He was quite faint.

"You…” Harry rubbed his face tiredly. He was silent for a few moments, and then he started again. “You…you need to tell me what’s going on.”

Draco blinked at him innocently. “Nothing’s going on.”

“So you go from shagging me to suddenly ignoring me,” Harry said flatly.

Draco’s heart leapt. He had been trying his best to put their previous escapades out of his mind. “I was angry.”

“So that’s what you do when you’re angry, is it? You just shut people out?”

“I…” His mouth went dry. Glancing around the room as though some inspiration might suddenly come to him, Draco floundered. “I didn’t…you shouldn’t…I just couldn’t believe you would…”

“Look, I’ve said I’m sorry. And I am.”

He exhaled. “I know. I know you are.”

There was an awkward silence as Draco looked down at his hands. He wished desperately that Pansy were here—she was always so much better at sorting out his emotions for him.

“Did you tell your father? About what I said in the library?”

Draco looked up, surprised. He instantly regretted it. It was so painful looking at Harry’s face. “I did. He was angry…he didn’t believe me at first. And he, er…” Harry stared at him as he trailed off. He didn’t know how to say this, or whether he should. Once he told Harry, there was no going back. But he found himself speaking before he had fully made up his mind. “He told me what’s in the vial.”

“And?”

“It’s, well…” Draco took a deep breath. This was it, then. “It’s just a Cure for Boils.”

“Oh.” Harry seemed to deflate somewhat.

“But the actual vial, it’s a Portkey.” Draco couldn't meet Harry's gaze. In a terrible way, he felt as though he was betraying his father. “It’s charmed to respond only to his touch. They’re going to use it to escape from the Manor.”

"When?” Harry asked.

“I guess whenever I bring it to him. He wants me to hold onto it until the holidays, and then they'll escape before his next hearing."

“But what if someone finds it between now and then?” Harry asked, echoing his own worries. “Or it breaks, or it goes missing?”

Draco shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“Let me keep it,” Harry said. “Nobody will search me.”

Draco wanted badly to trust him, but he had learned paranoia, distrust, and suspicion from his parents from as early as he could remember. “I can’t. He said to keep it on me.”

“So we’ll get you home earlier.” Draco gazed up at him, bewildered. “McGonagall can arrange the Floo network. I’ll make the request. The Ministry…” He gave a humourless smile. “They won’t refuse the Boy Who Lived Twice, will they?”

Draco shook his head. Something buried deep within his mind told him not to accept, although he couldn’t say why. “I don’t want to draw attention to myself. I’ll wait for the holidays.”

"And what if the Wizengamot change their plans again?” Harry asked, his voice rising. “They could move his hearing up. They could move it to tomorrow!”

Draco didn't know what to say.

“You…” Harry abruptly rose to his feet and started pacing. “And you’re sure this Portkey will work?”

“My father seems pretty confident.”

“Can’t we check it somehow? Or test it?”

"No.” Harry opened his mouth to argue when Draco said, “Just leave it, Harry. What does it matter? Why do you care? Another Death Eater gets what he deserves. The world moves on.”

" _You_ won’t move on,” Harry snapped. “And neither will I. It’s not right. I know they’re angry, but I don’t want them doing… _that_.”

Draco looked away stubbornly.

“And I do care. Don't be a prat. I care about you.”

No. No. Absolutely not. He couldn’t start this up again.

“Look at me.”

Draco refused. He kept his eyes fixed on the scarlet sheets until he felt the mattress shift next to him. When Harry reached out to turn Draco’s face towards his, he flinched.

“Look at me.” Harry searched his eyes as Draco did everything he could to stop from falling apart. Panicked, he tried to turn away again, but Harry growled and forced their eyes to meet. “Look at me, damn you.” Draco scowled at him. “After everything you’ve put me through, don’t even think of misbehaving.”

Draco forced himself to breathe. He became acutely aware that they were sitting in Harry’s bed. Memories of the last time they had been here rose to the surface before he could submerge them again.

“I can’t,” he whispered. “I really, really can’t.”

“You _can_ ,” Harry urged him. “I know who you are.”

“I’ve told you,” he said angrily, "you don’t. You think you know me, but you don’t. You see me how you want to see me, and look where that’s gotten us.”

Undeterred, Harry said, “So tell me what you were doing tonight. Why you went to the party.”

“What?” He recoiled. “What the hell are you on about?”

“The party. Tell me why you went.”

“I don’t—it was…I told you. Daphne asked me. She wanted to go with Dean Thomas, and she wanted me there. I didn’t want to go, but I figured—”

Draco wasn’t able to finish his sentence because suddenly, Harry was kissing him. For a moment, he stiffened, trying to find the resolve to push him away. But he couldn’t. Because all at once Harry was _there,_ he was right there, taking Draco into his arms so tenderly that his heart absolutely ached. Draco kissed him back, forgetting all at once that he was supposed to be angry, supposed to be protecting himself. He was shaking, but not from fear. Or perhaps it _was_ from fear—fear of the enormous swell of emotion that bubbled up as Harry kissed him.

When they finally pulled away, Draco was dizzy. _‘This has to be a dream.'_

“I’m going to ask you something,” Harry said quietly. Draco noticed that his eyes were trained on his lips. “And you need to be honest with me.”

“Alright.” He didn’t trust himself to say much else.

"What did you and Zabini do?”

Draco felt his face turn pink, and he made to protest when Harry held up his hand. “I know. Ron told me. It’s…” He exhaled. “Just tell me. Be honest.”

“We…we were in the changing room,” Draco said. He wanted to look away, but he knew Harry wouldn’t like that. “And Nott was there, but then he left…and I was cleaning my clothes, and I sort of knew…knew what would happen…” He tried to decipher Harry’s impassive expression. “And we, er…we kissed. Without…much clothes on.”

“Right.” There was a pause, and Draco steeled himself, ready for a barrage of Harry’s anger. Instead, he said softly, “Where did he kiss you?”

“Er…” Draco had mostly repressed his memories of that night. “Just…we kissed.”

“And where did he touch you?”

Confused, Draco said, “I mean…I don’t really…you’re not going to like it...”

“Tell me.”

Under Harry’s forceful gaze, he acquiesced. “I think…my shoulders. And my back. And…my stomach…and lower…” As something dangerous flashed in Harry’s eyes, he added: “ _Not_ there.”

“Right.” Harry sat back, appraising him. Draco wondered if that was too much, if this would be the last time they ever spoke.

“It wasn’t…it was nothing, I’m telling you…”

“I want you to listen to me.” Harry’s voice was hardly more than a whisper. “I am going to wipe away every last mark of him on you. Do you understand me?” Rendered mute, Draco could only nod. “And then you are going to forget about him. About how he touched you. We are both going to forget. And you are going to be mine.”

“Alright,” Draco whispered, almost afraid of the way his heart twisted.

Harry undressed him slowly. There was none of their usual aggression. Draco knew not to bother reaching for Harry; that was a conversation for another day. Instead, he allowed Harry to pull off his shirt, and then his trousers, followed by his pants and socks. Harry led him to the middle of the bed, and he arranged the pillows so that Draco could lay comfortably. Looking down at his work, Harry traced a finger along Draco’s chest. “You’ll tell me if it hurts.”

“Make it hurt,” Draco gasped, too far gone to be embarrassed. “I want you to mark me.”

“Yeah?” Harry smirked, enjoying that. He straddled Draco’s lap. “Want to show up at breakfast tomorrow and have everyone know you’re mine?”

"Yeah,” he breathed.

Harry held his hands in his and he laughed. God, it felt so good to hear him laugh. “Don’t tempt me.” He took Draco’s face in his hands and kissed him slowly. Draco felt himself come undone. How had he managed to go on for so long without kissing Harry? How, for one instant, had he thought he could live the rest of his life without feeling Harry’s lips on his? The weight of Harry’s body draped over his was exhilarating. The first time Harry groaned into his mouth, Draco moaned desperately back, reaching up to grip his shoulders. To his relief, Harry allowed it.

Overcome, he broke the kiss and gasped, “I…” Cowering under the weight of what he was feeling, he froze. Harry smiled, apparently understanding him.

Draco twisted his hands in the sheets as Harry kissed along his jaw. He bit roughly at a spot on Draco’s neck, refusing to relent until he keened and squirmed. Finally, he drew back, and then licked tenderly at the spot as Draco shuddered.

“I’ve thought about you every day,” Harry murmured, tracing his hand across Draco’s chest. “Told myself not to. But I couldn’t help it.” Harry shifted, and Draco gave a loud moan as he started to lick, bite, and kiss down his chest. “Every time I saw you…at meals, in class…God, I wanted you.” Draco didn’t think he could manage to reply, and anyway, Harry didn’t seem to expect a response. He sucked hard at a spot on Draco’s chest—that would definitely leave a mark. Reflexively, he reached up to tangle his fingers through Harry’s messy hair.

Everywhere Zabini had touched him, Harry kissed. Draco's skin burned. Never before had he been so aware of his own body. It felt as though he was being purged--as though every last grain of guilt and shame was being wiped away and instead replaced with nothing but Harry, Harry, Harry. Overwhelmed as he was, Draco urged himself to commit every last detail to memory--Harry's blue jumper, his brilliant green eyes, his flushed face and his swollen lips.

Finally, Harry made his way down Draco’s stomach, past his navel, kissing at his skin as though he meant to cover every inch of it. Draco could hardly breathe. Harry looked so beautiful like this, so impossibly beautiful, eyes closed as he drew a gentle trail of kisses across Draco's hip. Just as he thought Harry was finally going to touch his cock—so hard it ached, so hard it took everything in him not to thrust against Harry’s jumper—Harry smirked and sat up.

Draco stared at him. Harry shrugged. “You said Zabini never touched you there. And I _am_ supposed to be punishing you.”

“You…you also like rewarding me, don’t you?”

“I do,” Harry mused. Slowly, he reached down and took him in hand. Fuck, Draco had missed this. The feel of Harry’s hand—rough, calloused, so distinctly _Harry_. Draco brought his own hands up to cover his face. And, of course, Harry diligently pulled them away.

“I want to see your face,” Harry said. He had increased his pace, stroking Draco in earnest now. He used his thumb to rub the tip of Draco’s cock.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he mumbled. He was taut, on edge, already close—and so he cried out when Harry abruptly pulled away.

“I’m going to have to teach you all over again,” Harry sighed, coming to lay next to him. “Teach you to be patient.”

Draco reached out and pulled Harry in for a rough kiss. Harry laughed against his mouth, cupping his face. As they broke apart, Draco said in a rush of emotion, “I’ll never get tired of kissing you.”

“Good.” Harry pushed Draco’s hair out of his face, and the gesture felt so intimate that Draco had to look away. He groaned as Harry nuzzled the side of his neck, kissing one spot in particular that made Draco shiver. Unable to control himself any longer, he brazenly took Harry’s hand and brought it down to his cock. Harry grinned.

"Demanding, tonight, are we?”

Draco shut his eyes and looked away. Relenting, Harry started to stroke him again. He should have been embarrassed at how wet he was, at the sounds coming out of his mouth, but he was far past that point. It occurred to him that this was really happening—he was in bed, with Harry, and he was about to come into his hand. At the thought, he moaned. “Harry—I’m going to—I’m so close—”

"Let me hear you. I want to hear you.”

Harry certainly heard him—his vision went white, and he gripped the sheets so hard that his knuckles burned as he cried out Harry’s name like a prayer. His release hit him forcefully. He curled into Harry’s chest as he came, muttering his name as Harry coaxed him to completion, kissing the top of his head. “So good for me,” he was whispering, “so good, so good for me.”

Finally, Harry stopped, trailing his hand lazily up Draco’s back before reaching for his wand. Draco barely noticed as he cleaned the mess. They lay together, Draco trying to catch his breath, Harry pulling a sheet over him. All of his worries had seeped right out of him. Next to Harry, he felt as though everything was manageable. The outside world and all of its troubles couldn’t possibly reach him here, tucked into Harry’s sheet, nestled under his arm.

“From now on, no more nonsense, alright?” Harry said. Silently, he agreed.

No more nonsense.


	24. xxiv.

Draco just managed to slip out of Harry’s bed before the eighth-year Gryffindors returned to their dormitory. It was a painful separation, Harry nearly refusing to allow him to leave. He grasped Draco’s hand one last time, kissing his palm and then every one of his fingers, until Draco, laughing, managed to pull away. In the days that followed, they couldn’t stand to be apart. He almost couldn’t bring himself to care if people stared—they walked each other to their respective classes, dawdling in the corridors until the very last second; one night, at dinner, Harry strode over to the Slytherin table and sat himself right across from Draco. They discussed Thursday’s study session, keeping their expressions as neutral as possible, but Draco nearly slipped when he felt Harry’s foot brush against his.

He felt absolved, as though the build-up of shame and grief and suffering from the last four years was slowly being sloughed off his skin. When Daphne found him the morning after the party, nearly in tears and begging him to forgive her, he laughed.

“Forget it,” he said, snickering again at the look of shock on her face. “Tell me about the party. Tell me what I missed.”

Tuesday night, they met in the Room of Requirement for one of their practice sessions. By now, Harry was quite proficient at nonverbal magic. And anyway, he didn’t seem very keen on practicing—the moment the door closed behind them, Harry pushed Draco down onto the couch. He climbed into Draco’s lap and kissed him, sighing happily as Draco clasped his hands around his neck.

Reluctantly, Draco pulled away. “I need to ask you something.”

"Yeah?” Harry gave him a lopsided smile.

“Can you…” He felt himself blushing. “I don’t know how to cast a Patronus. A corporeal one. And I want to learn before the lesson on Thursday."

“What?” Harry smiled, feigning surprise. “Is Draco Malfoy asking _me_ for help?”

He rolled his eyes. “I knew you’d be a prat.”

Harry laughed. “I’m only joking.” Turning serious, he sat back, running his hands down Draco’s chest. “Have you tried before?”

“Loads of times.” He shrugged. “You need a happy memory, right? And…I guess I don't have anything good enough.”

"Think of your mother, all the good parts of your childhood,” Harry suggested. “Think about that time you let a Dungbomb off in the Manor.”

Draco snorted. “I have. I’ve tried just about everything. I mean…I feel a bit stupid, to be honest.”

“Why?”

“It feels awful, telling you I can’t think of a happy enough memory when at least I _had_ my parents. But you…” He trailed off.

Harry held Draco’s chin and turned his face up so that their eyes met. “Hey,” he said quietly. “You don’t need to feel bad. We’ll work on it.”

Harry rose to his feet and took out his wand. “Right…a Patronus. You already know the theory, of course.” Draco nodded. “We just need to think of a happy enough memory.” Harry gave him a wry smile and said, “We could make one up now, if you like.”

Draco shook his head, smirking. “It’s like I said before—you're absolutely insatiable.”

Harry grinned at him and then looked down at his wand thoughtfully. “I’ve used a couple of different memories…my first time riding a broomstick, for example. But sometimes, it didn't even have to be a memory. I would just think of stuff that made me happy. One time, I thought about Umbridge being sacked.” Draco laughed. “Sometimes I’ve just thought about Ron and Hermione.”

"Really?” Draco blinked at him in surprise. “So…it just has to be a happy thought, then.”

Harry shrugged. “I guess so. Just…something that would make you happy.”

Before Draco could help himself, he thought of the possibility of his father going away—somewhere. Anywhere. He imagined a life without having to worry about his father. And, although it was more painful to admit, he felt a small surge of hope when he allowed himself to consider, just for a moment, a life where he wouldn’t have to worry about his mother, either. Agitated, he stood up from the sofa. “I can’t. Everything I think of…it isn’t right.”

“You’re allowed to be happy, you know.”

Draco didn’t know what to say. That sharp, crushing panic was starting to seep back in. Catching the look on his face, Harry reached out and held his hand. “Relax. It’s okay.”

“Yeah.” He tried to shake off the tension in his shoulders, but he couldn’t.

Harry took him into his arms. “It doesn’t have to be some big, elaborate memory, you know? I bet if I just thought of kissing you, I could produce a Patronus. Easily.”

“You’re so soppy, Potter,” Draco sneered.

"It’s you who brings it out in me,” he insisted. “Go on. Just try it. I’m right here.”

Draco drew out his wand, steeling himself. He glanced over at Harry, who gave him an encouraging smile. “ _Expecto Patronum!_ ” As he had come to expect, a silvery cloud shot from the tip of his wand.

“Alright. Try again.”

Draco could feel himself getting frustrated. He had practiced conjuring a Patronus a hundred times already. At the hopeful look on Harry’s face, he pushed down his irritation. He thought back to the moment a few nights ago when Harry had kissed him on his bed. “ _Expecto Patronum!_ ” The clouds were less wispy, he thought.

“You’ll get there.” Harry grasped his shoulder. “You’ll get there.”

***

Draco had finally started to sleep at night. There were still nightmares, of course. Some were clearer than others. He often dreamed about the Manor: scenes of his parents fighting, the Death Eaters duelling, the Dark Lord’s cruel eyes. Other times, his dreams were hazy, blurred, filled with screams and terrible gasps of pain that he couldn’t quite identify. And yet, despite these nightmares, Draco still managed to sleep for a few hours. It was a first for him. He was furious, then, when someone shook him awake.

“What? Harry?” Draco sat up in his bed, heart racing. It was so dark that he couldn’t make out the figure hovering over him.

“What? Why the hell would Harry Potter be in here?” His heart sunk—it was Pansy.

“What do you want?” he hissed. “You’ll wake everyone up.”

“Then keep your voice down!”

"Get out of here!”

“No!” she whispered fiercely, grabbing his wrist. “I need you to come with me. Now.”

“What for?”

“Just follow me!”

Draco wanted to push her away and fall back asleep, but he was terrified that her shrill whispers would wake up the others. Exasperated, he threw back the sheets, stuffed his slippers onto his feet, and then climbed out of bed.

“Hurry up!”

“I can’t just go out in my nightclothes,” Draco said, scandalized. He tip-toed over to the wardrobe and pulled the door open as quietly as he could manage. The door gave a sharp _creak_ and he froze as someone—Nott, he suspected—coughed. After waiting a few moments, he reached in, fumbled through his robes, and found a cloak. He thought of the vial, locked safely away, but he knew that opening his trunk would definitely wake the others. As he grabbed Pansy’s elbow and led her out of the dormitory, he hoped he wasn’t making a terrible mistake.

"Do you mind telling me what the hell is going on?” Draco demanded as they made it safely to the common room.

“I will, I will,” Pansy said, hurrying across the room. “Just come with me.”

“We’re going out?” he asked, stopping short. “It’s…” He checked his wristwatch. “Pansy, it’s four in the morning.”

“I’m aware of what time it is!” she snapped. “Would you _please_ just come with me?”

Draco scowled at her and gave an irritable huff, but he followed her all the same. The dungeons were freezing. “Aren’t you cold?” he asked miserably, wrapping his cloak tighter around his frame.

“I’m fine.” Looking over, Draco realized that Pansy was dressed in her everyday robes.

“Were you not sleeping?” he asked. She rolled her eyes and refused to respond.

Finally, they stopped in front of the Potions classroom. Pansy tapped the door once, muttered something Draco couldn’t hear, and then pushed her way through. Instantly, a bitter smell hit him. The room was filled with thick, green smoke. Covering his mouth and nose with his cloak, Draco took a cautious step forward. As he looked around, he noticed several upturned cauldrons on the floor.

“What happened?” he asked.

Pansy threw herself into a chair. “I’ve stuffed everything up.”

“Alright.” Knowing he needed to proceed with caution, Draco followed her into the room. “I’m sure…I’m sure it isn’t that bad.”

“Slughorn asked me to brew some Skele-Gro, for the Hospital Wing,” she said, gesturing towards the cauldrons. “Blaise has been horrible. I can’t stand working with him anymore. I told him to just leave it to me, that I could manage. But I've been so bogged down with homework that I ran out of time. So I told myself I would do it tonight, and then no one would be around to bother me, you know? And it was going alright, until…” She gave a sharp wail. “I don’t know what's happened!”

“Alright, alright,” he muttered, terrified in the face of her tears. “What’s the last thing you did before...it went wrong?”

She shrugged, sniffling. “I can’t remember. I think I added the ingredients in the wrong order. Or maybe I heated up the cauldrons too quickly. I’ve been getting a lot better at brewing Potions so I figured, you know, I would do a few batches at once.”

“And when is this due?”

“Noon today,” she squeaked fearfully.

Draco gave a dull sigh. “Brilliant.” He approached the cauldrons cautiously. “Where’s the potion?”

“It all went up in smoke!” she cried. “The cauldrons just burst, and there was smoke everywhere! I could hardly even breathe.”

Draco took out his wand and, slowing tracing a pattern, started to suck the fumes out of the air. “Have you got the recipe?”

“Here.” She pulled a folded piece of parchment from within her cloak and passed it to him. As Draco held his wand aloft with one hand, he used the other to set the parchment down onto the desk and spread it open. After a moment, he said, “This isn’t too difficult. How much do you need?”

“About three cauldrons’ worth.”

"Yeah. Alright.” The smoke was mostly gone. Finally, his eyes had stopped burning, and he felt as though he could breathe again. “Why don’t you get to work on the beetles, and I’ll shred up the cabbage.”

Pansy made a face. “Oh, can’t you do the beetles?” she whined. “They creep me out.”

“Fine.” As Pansy headed into the store cupboard, Draco levitated the cauldrons back up onto the table. He was re-reading the recipe when Pansy came out, arms full of ingredients.

“I think there’s just enough puffer-fish,” she said. “So we’ll have to be careful.”

“We will be.”

Draco set to work counting out scarab beetles while Pansy sharpened her knife. “I diced it quite fine, before,” she said. “You think that’s alright?”

He shrugged. “Just do a rough chop.”

They worked in silence for a while, Draco trying to suppress his yawns as he crushed the beetles with a pestle. His thoughts drifted to Harry, who surely must still be asleep in his bed…his bed, where he had kissed Draco senseless. Mortified, Draco realized that he was getting hard. Clearing his throat, he shifted in his seat and said conversationally, “I don’t know why you’re so upset. Slughorn’s not that bad.”

“Can you imagine the look on Blaise’s face if he found out?” she said irritably. Draco hummed in agreement; she had a point. “And anyway…” Pansy hesitated, glancing up at him. In a wobbly voice, she said, “Slughorn is doing me a bit of a favour over the holidays. And I didn’t want to spoil everything.”

“Oh? What’s that?”

Lips pursed, Pansy became very absorbed in slicing the last few bits of cabbage. Finally, she said, “You remember I told you about St. Mungo’s? And how you can get a job brewing remedies for the patients there?”

“Sure.”

“Well, I didn’t have the grades to sit my N.E.W.T.s in Potions,” she said. “But I told Slughorn what I was thinking. And he knows a few people on the Board of Directors.”

Draco scoffed. “Of course he does.”

“I was so excited…finally, I have some options, you know? And then I go and ruin everything.”

"I can’t see why you’re being so dramatic,” he said, grounding up the last of the beetles. “You made a mistake. It happens.”

“I just don’t want to waste the opportunity,” she said in a small voice.

“You won’t. We’ll have this done in no time,” he said bracingly. “How does that puffer-fish need to be cut?”

As far as potions went, Skele-Gro was quite simple to prepare. They filled the cauldrons with tepid water, and then Draco instructed Pansy to gently slide the ingredients off the cutting board and into each cauldron as he stirred clockwise. She was about to bring them to the boil when Draco stopped her—“No, look, you need to wait ten minutes.”

“That must be what I did wrong,” she moaned. “God, I’m so stupid.”

“You’re fine.” Draco checked his wristwatch. “We’ll wait until six-thirty-five, then.”

“Is that the time?” she gasped, horrified. “I’m sorry, Draco. You must be exhausted.”

“Not really.”

As they waited, Pansy pulled her hair into a neat plait. “So how was the party, then?” she asked.

Draco felt a smile pulling at the corner of his lips. He needed to get a hold of himself. “Oh, fine,” he said idly, pretending to look into the cauldrons to avoid her gaze. “I only went for Daphne, you know.”

“Oh, God. Her and Thomas. Was it awful?”

“What? No.” Draco looked over at her, confused. “Why?”

“They were _all_ over each other at the Three Broomsticks,” she said, face twisting with disgust. “She didn’t even warn us, either. He met us there and next thing you know, they’re snogging right in front of us.”

Draco tried to tell himself that Pansy was only commenting on their public display of affection. Acting as though he couldn’t hear her, he started to tidy up their workspace.

“Did you know his siblings are all Muggles?” she went on. “I understand why they let them in. Honestly, I do. But they’re just so _different_ , you know? It’s not fair to them, really. They weren’t raised like us. They don’t understand our world.”

Bristling, he muttered, “I wouldn’t be so sure.”

“I don’t dislike him,” she said quickly. “But it’s…weird. What can they honestly have in common?”

“It’s not like they’re getting married tomorrow.”

“I know that! I know. It’s just…weird.”

Although Draco didn't want to fight with her, he couldn’t help but snap, “It’s not really your business, anyway.”

“What?” she asked him, stricken. “I-I know that. I’m just…saying.”

“Well, let it go. There’s nothing wrong with Dean Thomas.”

“Are you…?” She scowled. “Are you alright?"

“Fine,” he growled, scrubbing aggressively at a spot on the worktable.

“All I’m saying is that there are so few pure-bloods left,” she sighed. “And Daphne’s one of them. Her parents will be furious if they find out.”

“And who cares, Pansy?” he nearly shouted. He threw down his rag in disgust. “Who really gives a fuck? Her parents will be angry, so what? She’s of age, isn’t she? Let them be angry.”

“I think you’re tired,” Pansy said tersely. “You should go back to bed.”

Fuming, he replied, “I’m not tired. I’m fed up with all this.” Realizing that he could just clean the spot with a Scouring Charm, Draco took out his wand, but he was too shaken to manage it. It terrified him to be fighting with Pansy like this—he hated conflict, hated arguments, hated disagreeing with one of his only friends. But now that he had started, he couldn’t seem to stop. “You think anyone really cares about the Sacred Twenty-Eight?”

“Lots of people do!” she shot back.

"Well, they shouldn’t.”

“Your parents will!”

“And my parents are a couple of idiots,” he said shortly. “None of that shit matters anymore. It never did.”

“You are unbelievable,” she spat. “You’ve spent _years_ going on about Mudbloods. It’s all you’d ever talk about. You practically forced me to agree with you, to see things your way. And now you act like you’re so much better than all of us.”

“I was wrong. At least I can admit it.”

"This is so stupid. I don’t know why we’re arguing.” Draco said nothing. “We’re just _curious_ , that’s all. We were _surprised_. Alright? It’s going to take us a bit of time to get used it. Theo, he—”

“Don’t you bring him up,” Draco warned her. “You can tell he still believes in all of it.”

“You’ve got the Mark!” she shouted, jumping to her feet and pointing to his arm. “You were a Death Eater, weren’t you? And Theo never was!”

“That—I—”

“No! You can’t! You can’t just fucking forget who you were, Draco. Who you _are._ I know you’re trying to distance yourself from everything, to give yourself some sort of chance at a half-decent job, but you’re a hypocrite. You’re a liar.”

They glared at each other. With a terse tap of his wand, Draco finally Scoured the spot off the wooden table. He checked his wristwatch. “It’s been ten minutes. Bring it to a boil, simmer for twenty minutes, and then take it off the heat. Here.” He shoved the recipe into her hands and stormed out of the classroom, the shocked look on her face haunting him long after he crawled back into bed.


	25. xxv.

Draco and Harry were late to their Thursday study session. They bumped into each other on the way to the Great Hall, and Draco gave a perfunctory show of resisting before allowing Harry to pull him into an empty classroom. Pinning him against the wall, Harry kissed him so hard that Draco wondered faintly whether he was trying to stop him from breathing ever again. When they finally broke apart, their lips swollen, their faces flush, Draco made to reach for Harry again when they remembered the study group. They pulled themselves together as best they could before rushing to the Great Hall, sharing an amused look as they realized that they were the last to arrive. Pansy, Draco noticed, wasn’t there. They hadn’t spoken since their argument. Draco told himself that he didn’t care.

“Right, hi everyone,” Harry called. “This is our last meeting before the holidays, so we thought we’d do something a bit different.” Glancing over at Draco, he grinned; it took everything Draco had not to smile back. “We’ll be practicing Patronuses today.” An excited murmur swept through the crowd. “Some of you already know how to cast a Patronus…in that case, we’re asking you to help the others.”

Harry started to pace; he did this, Draco thought fondly, whenever he lectured. “A Patronus,” he said, “will protect you from a Dementor. But to produce a corporeal Patronus, you need a happy memory. A very happy memory—or a happy thought, even.” He paused, and then said, “It takes a long time to master, so don’t expect to get it on your first try. We thought tonight you could just practice. Start by picking a happy memory, and we’ll go from there.”

A hand shot up—startled, Draco realized that it was Zabini’s. “Couldn’t we have a demonstration?” he asked.

Harry scowled and looked as though he was about to refuse him. Wanting to avoid a fight, Draco stepped forward, but there was no need. Harry got control of himself and gave a tight smile. “Yeah. Sure.” He set back his shoulders, held his wand up, and then: “ _Expecto Patronum_!” From the tip of his wand, a silvery stag burst forth, trotting around the gathered students as they clapped.

“And what’s your happy memory, Potter?” Blaise called out. Catching sight of Draco’s glare, he shrugged innocently. “So that we can have an example.”

“That time Gryffindor beat Slytherin in Quidditch, 230 to 20,” Harry shot back. As the Gryffindors laughed and jeered, Harry spoke over them. “Anyway, if we can get back to—”

“But what about Draco?” Daphne’s voice rose from the din. “He's leading these lessons, too, isn’t he?”

Draco winced, trying to think of some way to signal his discomfort to her.

“That’s alright,” Harry said. “We’ve only got an hour.”

“Well, that’s not very fair!” Daphne cried, indignant.

For God’s sake. All eyes were on him now, and he knew that he was trapped. Exasperated, Draco pulled out his wand. The room went quiet as he cleared his mind, taking one deep breath, and then another. He looked over at Harry, and he allowed himself to imagine a life without his father hanging over him. A life with Harry, just the two of them, unbothered by the outside world. It was silly, but for one single moment he gave himself permission to envision a life that belonged to no one else—a life where he was in control, where he determined his own fate. “ _Expecto Patronum!”_

At first, he was disappointed; a long, wispy cloud poured out from his wand. But then he realized that it was taking form, slowly shifting into a small, eight-legged creature that skittered off into the air.

“A scorpion,” Harry said, sounding rather amused.

Draco blinked at his Patronus, stunned.

Harry led the students in a round of applause, beaming at him. Draco could hear Daphne shouting, “Very well done, Draco!” But he didn’t care, because he had done it. He stood there and watched as the scorpion reacted to the sudden noise, holding its tail erect and hissing. A corporeal Patronus. And he thought it rather pretty, too, gleaming as it scurried about nervously. As Harry’s stag disappeared, so did his scorpion, drifting off into a silvery mist. Draco glanced at Zabini; to his satisfaction, he had a sour look on his face.

After their demonstration, the others were eager to learn what form their Patronus might take. They quickly spread out and started to practice. Draco and Harry worked their way through as many students as they could, with the help of previous D.A. members. Very few students managed to produce anything more than shapeless wisps, although there was a moment of excitement when Jimmy Peakes conjured what looked like a large dog before it trickled away.

The students protested as the lesson came to an end. Several of them insisted on continuing, swearing that they were just on the verge of succeeding. “Keep practicing over the holidays!” Harry urged them. “Work on finding the right memory! We’ll pick up again in January.” Draco considered it to be their most successful lesson yet; although nobody had conjured a Patronus aside from the old D.A. members, the students chattered happily as they left the Great Hall. Pulling on his cloak, Draco smiled to himself as he felt Harry come up next to him.

“I’m proud of you,” he muttered. “You have no idea. I’d love to see you tonight, but I promised Ron and Hermione we’d spend some time together.”

Draco shook his head. “That’s alright. You go ahead. I’ll see you…tomorrow?” He couldn’t help himself; he looked up, catching Harry’s eye.

“Yeah. After dinner. Let’s meet in the entrance hall.”

They shared a meaningful look and then Harry took off. Shouldering his bag, Draco followed the crowd. Daphne was waiting for him by the doors; in his elation, he found that he couldn’t even be mad at her.

“You did so well, Draco!” she enthused. “Of course your Patronus is a scorpion! I had no idea, but it all makes sense, doesn’t it?”

“Does it?”

“I should think so! Scorpions are quite scary, aren’t they? But they have to be, to protect themselves. They don’t want to fight, either—they’ll hold off as long as they can before attacking.” Giggling, Daphne added, “I thought for sure it would be a snake.”

“I didn’t know what it would be,” he admitted. “That was my first time casting a proper Patronus.”

She looked up at him, startled. “I didn’t mean to put you on the spot!” she cried. “You should have said something.”

“It’s fine. Forget about it.”

As they headed down the stairs to the dungeons, Daphne telling him all about her plans for the holidays, Draco mulled over the happy thought he had used to conjure his Patronus. Resigning himself, he knew what he needed to do.

***

“What’s happened with you and Pansy Parkinson?”

Draco glanced over at Harry, surprised. “What do you mean?”

“You two haven’t been speaking at all,” Harry said. “Why?”

They were walking through the grounds, bundled tightly in their winter cloaks. Draco illuminated his wand so that they could follow the path to the Great Lake. Thanks to Harry’s Warming Charm, they were quite comfortable, and Draco enjoyed the gentle breeze against his face. It felt good to be outdoors.

“We had a bit of an argument,” he answered.

“About what?”

Draco shrugged. “You know that Daphne Greengrass and Dean Thomas are dating?”

Harry laughed. “I know. He won’t shut up about it.”

“Yeah. Well, some of the Slytherins aren’t as thrilled.”

Harry was quiet for a moment. “But you don’t mind, right?” he eventually asked. “You went to the party with them, didn’t you?”

“Of course I don’t mind,” he said. “I’m no better—you’re a half-blood, even if you _are_ Harry Potter.”

“And that doesn’t bother you?”

Softly, Draco said, “It doesn’t. It doesn’t bother me at all.”

They walked along in silence for a while, until Harry said, “So, what are you going to do? You’ve been friends since first year.”

“Oh, long before first year.” Draco looked out at the lake—under the soft drag of wind, the water rippled. “I’ve known Pansy…as long as I can remember. Family friends, that sort of thing.”

“She’s very protective of you,” Harry noted.

“She’s…” Draco sighed. “Yeah. She’s a good friend. She just…” He shrugged. “I don’t want all that rubbish in my life anymore, you know? The obsession over blood status. It’s not…I’m not…”

“I know,” Harry whispered.

“Can I ask you a question?” Draco turned to him. “This internship thing. Why did they stick you with me?”

Harry laughed, bumping his shoulder gently into Draco’s. “As if I’m complaining.”

“But why, though?” he insisted. “You could have any position in the Ministry. You could be an Auror in a few years.”

“Mmm.”

“You probably don't even need to sit your N.E.W.T.s. You could be Minister for Magic, if you wanted. But McGonagall and Proudfoot said they couldn’t place you. Why?”

Harry, apparently sensing that Draco wasn’t going to drop it, exhaled. “I just wanted…I dunno. I needed time to sort myself out.” Draco kept quiet, waiting for Harry to continue. When he did, his voice had a bitter tone to it. “All my life, I’ve been Harry Potter. The Chosen One, the Boy Who Lived. And then, just like that, I defeated Voldemort. And once things started going back to normal, I realized that my whole life, I’d had a goal, you know? Killing Voldemort. I had never really thought past that.”

“Right.”

Harry looked up at the sky, hands in his pockets. “So, I came back this year to figure out…”

“Who you are?”

Harry groaned. “It sounds stupid, when you say it like that. But I guess…Not really figuring out who I am, but what I’m going to spend the rest of my life doing. I’ve never really had the time to think about it. And near the end of the war, honestly, I sort of knew. Knew that…”

“You were going to die,” Draco whispered.

“Yeah. I couldn’t see past Voldemort. So once he was gone, I didn’t really know where that left me.”

“Right.”

“And what about you?”

“Me? They just didn’t know what to do with me.”

“That’s funny,” Harry said. “I can think of all sorts of things to do with you.”

“Ha, ha,” he said drily. Harry chuckled. “That’s what happened, though. Slughorn asked me what my plans were…told me to be practical, you know, since I’m Lucius Malfoy’s son…and I couldn’t really think of anything. So Proudfoot told me I’d be teaching lessons with you.”

“It’s good practice, though,” Harry said, “for when you become a teacher.”

“A teacher?” Draco looked at him in alarm. “What do you mean?”

Harry shrugged. “Seems pretty obvious. Look how far you’ve gotten me with nonverbal magic.” To demonstrate, Harry held out his wand; he had indeed cast a Warming Charm nonverbally.

“I would make an awful teacher,” he said at once.

“No. You wouldn’t,” Harry said in a thoughtful voice. “I think you’d be brilliant.”

They had arrived at Draco’s usual spot by the lake. Harry conjured a thick blanket for them to sit on, raising his eyebrows at Draco when he managed it nonverbally. Draco scoffed. It shouldn’t have been cozy, out by the lake in the middle of December, but it was. They sat back, watching the rise and fall of the water. The thick snow seemed to muffle all sound; it was as though they were in their own private bubble.

“So what are you going to do after Hogwarts, then?” Draco asked him.

“Dunno. Depends on what you decide to do.”

“Just going to follow me around, are you?” he teased.

“Well, yeah. I’ve had years of practice.”

Draco let out a long sigh. “I mean…I guess we’ll see what happens with my parents.”

“Yeah. Just four more days until the holidays, right? And then you can bring your father the Portkey.”

“Right.” Draco hesitated, and then asked, “You’re staying at Hogwarts for the holidays, aren’t you?”

“Yeah. I mean, the Weasleys…they invited me to the Burrow. But I kind of just want to be alone.”

“I thought you loved it there.”

“I do,” Harry agreed. “I do. They’re like family to me. But…after everything that’s happened…I need some time to myself.”

“Yeah.”

Harry took Draco’s arm and gently leaned him back against his chest. “I don’t mind having you around, though,” Harry said sheepishly.

“I've noticed.”

“I was really proud of you for conjuring a Patronus, you know,” Harry muttered. “Especially in front of everyone like that.”

“It’s not exactly the same as when you’re faced with a Dementor, is it?”

Harry squeezed his arm tightly. “You need to give yourself more credit.”

“I _was_ happy, though,” Draco admitted. “Pleased I could manage it.”

“So, what was your happy memory?”

“You tell me first. Zabini was all ears.”

“Zabini’s an idiot,” Harry growled. “But, anyway...I thought of that time in the Three Broomsticks. When we started using each other’s first names. And, you know…we just had a drink. With friends. It was…nice.”

“That’s surprisingly tame for you,” Draco noted. “I’m disappointed. I thought it would be something especially filthy.”

“That’s for another time.” Harry pressed a firm kiss to the top of his head. “You, now. Tell me.”

“I…” He closed his eyes, trying to calm the deluge of fear that overtook him. “It’s sort of…awful,” he whispered.

“Tell me.”

“It wasn’t a memory. It was…I just thought…” He swallowed thickly. “Imagine if I didn’t have to worry about my parents anymore. If they just…weren’t…here.”

“Soon,” Harry murmured. “Soon. Give your father the Portkey, and they’ll be gone.”

Draco shook his head. Feeling strangely numb, he reached forward and dragged his satchel onto his lap. His Bag of Sad Things. Perhaps not so sad anymore, though. He moved his copy of _A Guide to Advanced Transfiguration_ and found the small velvet pouch.

“Here.” He passed the pouch to Harry. “Open it.”

Silently, Harry loosened the drawstrings and pulled out the glass vial. He held it up, turning the vial in his fingers as it glinted in the moonlight.

“It’s weird, isn’t it?” Harry said softly. “To think that your parents’ only chance at getting away is this tiny, little bottle.”

“Yeah.” Draco took a deep breath, and then said, “Can I see it?”

Harry passed it to him, watching as Draco let the vial roll across his palm. For a moment, they did nothing but stare at it wordlessly. In one fluid motion, Draco took out his wand and pointed it at the vial. It shattered.


	26. xxvi.

At first, neither of them moved. Finally, heart racing, Draco held out his hand and rubbed his fingers together, allowing the glass shards to flit away into the wind. Harry was staring at him, horrified.

“What…what have you done?” he said faintly.

Draco felt quite lightheaded. “I, er…” He looked over at Harry, whose eyes were as wide as saucers. “Do you reckon I could stay here with you for the holidays?”

Harry gave a short bark of laughter, burying his face into his hands. “Oh, Draco,” he moaned, shaking his head. “Of course, you can stay here.”

“Good, because I doubt I’m getting any Christmas presents from my parents this year,” he said, dusting his hands for good measure.

“So…” Harry’s face grew serious. “Now what?”

“What do you mean? It’s gone, isn’t it? There’s nothing more to do.”

“You’re going to tell him, right?”

“Who? My father?” Draco grimaced. “Clearly, you don’t know him very well.”

“Draco,” Harry said softly. “You at least have to warn him.”

“Definitely not.”

“Please?”

“He’ll just find another way out,” Draco said.

“Then let him. If he does, it’s not as though you helped. But at least this way, your conscience is clear.”

“My conscience?” He snorted. “That hasn’t been clear for a very long time.”

“Draco.” At the sincerity in Harry’s voice, Draco turned to meet his eyes. “Please. Do it for me. At least warn him, so he can be prepared. Otherwise, I’m afraid you’ll never forgive yourself.”

Draco gave a great, exaggerated sigh. “I guess.”

“Do you have a way to contact him?”

“Well, we’ve spoken through Floo before.” He frowned. “Or I could just write. Their mail’s being checked, though.”

“Talk through Floo,” Harry advised him. “You need to tell him face-to-face.”

“And then what happens?” Draco asked quietly.

“Whatever you want. That’s the point of this, isn’t it?”

They sat by the lake a while longer, Harry holding Draco to his chest. Lost in thought, Draco allowed himself to wonder what would happen to his father. To his mother. A few months ago, he would have never been able to summon the courage to defy his parents like this. A part of him wasn’t ready to admit that he had just blown the vial to smithereens—it seemed too outrageous to be true. But he was tired of being used, sick of carrying his father’s sins like a millstone around his neck. Guilt threatened to engulf him, hot and painful and twisting in his chest, so he focused on Harry’s steady breathing, willing himself to be brave.

“It’s alright,” Harry muttered into his hair. “It’s alright. Just breathe.”

The full force of what he had done struck him. Fearful, he turned towards Harry. “That’s it for him, isn’t it?” he asked. “For my father?”

“I don’t know,” he said truthfully.

“Do you think there’s still a chance? A chance they won’t use the Kiss?”

Harry cupped Draco’s face and rubbed his thumb across his cheek. “There’s always a chance.”

Draco released a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding when Harry kissed him. Immediately, he responded, turning so that he could grip the front of Harry’s cloak.

“I’m not like you,” he said once they broke apart. “I’m not brave like you.”

“Really?” Harry mused. “What you did just now was pretty brave.”

“No. I did it because I’m afraid.”

“And?” Harry kissed his way down to Draco’s neck. “You did it, anyway.”

Draco groaned low in his throat as Harry bit into his skin. “You,” he gasped, “always leave a mark. It took me ages to Vanish everything last time.”

“Then leave them alone,” Harry argued; Draco could feel him smiling against his neck. “How else are people supposed to know you’re mine?”

Draco melted at his words. He made to undo the buttons on Harry’s cloak, whining in disappointment when Harry gently pulled him away.

“Why?” he asked, nearly vibrating with frustration. “Why won’t you let me?”

“I can’t.”

“Tell me. Please, just tell me. Is it something I’ve done?”

“Of course it isn’t.” Harry pulled him into a tight embrace. “I’m just not there yet.”

“I’m worried it’s…it’s the Mark, or…”

“What?” Harry leaned back to look at Draco’s face. “You think…” Shaking his head, Harry took Draco’s arm and pushed up his sleeves. The Mark was so black that it nearly shone, twisting horribly on Draco’s pale arm. 

“Don’t look at it,” Draco said, frightened. “It’s awful.”

“I’ve done a terrible job,” Harry told him, “at getting you to realize how mad I am about you.” Slowly, he bent forward and kissed the Mark. Draco nearly expected some sort of calamity to occur, as The Boy Who Lived Twice pressed his lips firmly onto his forearm. But nothing happened, other than a sudden eruption of butterflies in Draco’s stomach as Harry tugged his sleeves back down.

“I just need time,” Harry said, hugging him again. “Just a bit more time.”

***

The eighth-year Slytherins soon found that they had a record number of assignments to submit before the holidays. Saturday morning, they met in the library to try to work through their respective piles of homework. To Draco’s surprise, even Greg joined them—he, like Draco, was still working on the complicated paper Delacour had assigned them on Animagi. It felt strange, being with the others and acting as though everything was normal. Because it wasn’t—his life had been flipped upside-down in the best way possible. Whenever there was a lull in the conversation, Draco could think of nothing to bring up except topics revolving around Harry. It seemed very odd, that other people’s lives were going on as they always had, while his had been so permanently altered.

There was also the matter of his argument with Pansy. Things between them hadn’t improved: she refused to meet his eyes, head bowed over her Divination textbook. The others must have been uneasy, as well, because even Nott tried to intervene.

“What did Trelawney say about your reading, Pansy?” he asked, tapping his quill absently in the margins of his book. “The one you did for Draco?”

She shrugged.

“Not enough death and misery for her?”

“I don’t think Pansy’s predictions are particularly accurate,” Millicent said glumly. Draco glanced up, expecting to see a grin on Pansy’s face, but she continued to scowl down at her book.

“Can someone tell me what’s happened between you two?” Theo snapped.

“Does it really matter?” Zabini asked tersely. He had three chapters of _Sites of Historical Sorcery_ to get through for Binns, and he was as irritable as ever.

“Ask Draco,” Pansy muttered. He swore he could see tears forming in her eyes.

“Oh, please don’t fight,” Daphne said, reaching out to hold Pansy’s hand. “I’m sure it was just a misunderstanding. Everyone’s so tense, lately, with all this homework to get through.”

Pansy gave a great sniff.

“Can’t we just talk?” Draco asked her in a low voice. “Come on, let’s go for a walk.”

“No!” she said, glaring up at him. “Anything you have to say to me, you can say in front of them.” When he gaped at her, she added: “Go on, Draco. Tell them what you said the other day.”

He sat there, flummoxed, feeling the others’ eyes on him. Even Zabini looked up from his work.

“Tell them,” she hissed.

“Oh, for God’s sake.” Draco slumped back in his chair and fiddled with his quill. “It was a dumb fight. I just told her—” He broke off, looking over at Daphne. He didn’t want her to know what the others were saying about her and Thomas. “I’m just tired of it, the whole pure-blood nonsense. The Sacred Twenty-Eight, and all that rubbish.”

“Hear, hear,” Millicent muttered, looking down at her hands.

“I’m sure we can all agree on that,” Daphne said brightly.

“No, we can’t,” Pansy snapped. Her cheeks were red. “Draco is such a hypocrite. You didn’t know him before, Daphne. What he was like. Always going on about…about…” Pansy glanced over her shoulder. In a low voice, she said, “Mudbloods, and how they don’t belong here.”

“Pansy!” Daphne squeaked. “Don’t say that!” Predictably, they heard Madam Pince shush them.

“Careful, Pansy,” Zabini warned her.

“But isn’t it true?” she asked, looking around at them for support. “Isn’t that what he always used to say?” Swelling up in outrage, she turned to Greg, who was watching her absently. “Isn’t it, Greg?”

Goyle shrugged, appearing to regret his involvement. He hunched back over his Transfiguration paper.

“I see,” she said coldly. “So Draco can brainwash all of us for years and then decide to drop us, just like that.”

“I haven’t brainwashed anyone,” he argued. “And I haven’t dropped anyone, either. Blaise, Theo,” he said, looking around the table, “I’m sure you both heard the same drivel at home. About pure-bloods and Muggle-borns and all that.”

Nott rubbed the back of his neck uncomfortably. “It isn’t…we shouldn’t talk about that here.”

“Is this about Dean?” Daphne asked suddenly, her face going pink.

“No,” Draco started. “It’s nothing to do with—”

“How were we supposed to react when you brought him to the pub?” Pansy demanded. Several other students at a table next to theirs shushed her—she threw them a murderous glare. Turning back to Daphne, she said, “Out of nowhere, you just surprised us with him! You didn’t even give us a warning. What did you expect?”

Daphne stared at her mutely.

“And don’t you play the innocent,” Pansy said, rounding on Nott. He was pretending to read his textbook. “We _all_ said it. We all thought it was strange.”

Daphne glanced over at Draco. Frustrated, he snapped, “I never said anything. I’ve got no problem with Dean Thomas. As a matter of fact, I, er…” He urged himself to think, and then said, “We’re going flying together. After the holidays.” As they stared at him, Draco said, “That’s right. With the rest of the Gryffindors. Just…just a nice game of Quidditch.”

Zabini snorted, returning to his book. “Why has everyone gone mad this year?”

“Draco thinks he’s better than us,” Pansy said. “He practically told me so. And he warned me off you, Theo. Because you still believe in pure-blood supremacy.”

“Don’t get me involved in this,” Theo said nervously, his ears turning red. “God, can’t we just finish our homework?”

“No,” said Daphne. “Tell me: who has a problem with Dean?” None of them dared look at her.

“You’re all meant to be my friends,” she whispered.

“I don't mind Dean!” Millicent assured her.

“ _Nobody_ minds Dean,” Pansy said, exasperated. “This has nothing to do with Dean, Daphne. It’s just Draco being a self-righteous prat.” Sitting back in her chair, she glowered at him. “As usual.”

“Why are you taking this so personally?” he asked. “This is such a stupid argument. All I said is that I’m sick of all this pure-blood rubbish.”

“Maybe some of us don’t think it’s rubbish,” she spat.

Draco froze. “You don’t mean that.”

“I…” Once again, her eyes filled with tears. Wiping them away angrily, Pansy started to gather her things. “I don’t know what I mean. God, Draco, you’re so…”

“What have you made her cry for?” Theo sat upright in his chair.

“I haven’t done anything!”

“Oh, no, of course not,” Pansy snarled, stuffing her textbook into her bag. “You never do anything wrong, do you, Draco?” And with that, she stormed out of the library.

They sat in silence for a moment, shocked in the wake of her fury.

“That’s just like you, Draco,” Theo barked. “You think you’re so much better than everyone else. I’ve about had it with you this year.”

Bewildered Draco asked, “W-what? What I have done?”

Theo leaned towards him. “Out of everyone sitting at this table, who has the Dark Mark?”

Out of instinct, Draco gripped his forearm. He could feel the others’ eyes on him.

“You never have to face up to anything, do you?” Theo hissed. “You took the Mark, you were a Death Eater, for God’s sake, and now you’re back at Hogwarts as though nothing has happened. Didn’t even spend a day in Azkaban.” Face pinched, he added, “Meanwhile, people like my father are still on trial. Not everyone was so lucky to have Harry Potter speak up for them.”

“In case you’ve forgotten,” he said coolly, “my father’s facing the Dementor’s Kiss.”

“But you aren’t.” Dismissing him, Theo returned to his textbook, tapping his quill on the page so violently that a hole had started to form.

Shaken, Draco ignored Daphne’s sympathetic face and pretended to focus on his parchment. As his vision swam, he gripped his hands tightly together underneath the table. He couldn’t have an episode. Not here. But the bile was rising up so quickly in his throat that he thought he would be sick. Palms clammy, he rubbed them together, urging himself to focus on anything other than his absolute panic in the face of his friends’ anger. He thought of the look on Harry’s face when they kissed; he recalled the moment when Harry had pressed his lips to his Dark Mark. Taking a deep breath, Draco returned to his work.


	27. xxvii.

Finally, Draco’s wristwatch read ten minutes to three. As silently as possible, he slipped out of bed and donned his cloak. He bent down to reach for his slippers, freezing when someone muttered in their sleep. He heard a rustle of sheets, and then silence. Reminding himself to stay calm, he pulled on his slippers, straining his ears for any other sign that he might have woken his dormmates. When he heard nothing but the sounds of their rhythmic snores, he grabbed his satchel and tip-toed out of the room. This would, he hoped, be a short meeting, and then he could sneak back into his warm bed and enjoy a more restful sleep.

As Draco tread down the stairs to the common room, he told himself that this would be the last time. No more secret Floo meetings in the middle of the night. No more surreptitious notes to his father, trying to relay hints as inconspicuously as possible. No more long days spent agonizing over whether the common room would be empty and, if not, how he could clear it as quickly as possible. He would speak to his father through Floo one last time—for his mother, for Harry—and then he would be done with it. Easing into his usual armchair by the grate, Draco took a deep, steadying breath and reminded himself that this was the end. One way or another, this was the end.

“Draco.” His father’s face appeared in the flames, and he almost felt sorry—he was as gaunt as he had been at the height of the Dark Lord’s displeasure with their family. His eyes had an odd, sunken quality to them, and his face had been poorly shaved.

“Father,” he said stiffly. _‘Don’t feel bad. Don’t feel bad. He’s brought it on himself.’_

“Have I not told you,” his father hissed, “that our mail is being watched? Your last letter made it far too obvious that we’ve been speaking by Floo.”

“Right, sorry.”

His father gave a shaky exhale. “I suppose it will all be over soon, anyway. What time does the train leave on Tuesday?”

“Eleven.” He hesitated. “Father…”

“I’ve had a bit more information about where we’ll be headed,” he pressed on. “Your mother’s quite happy, somewhere in the south of—”

“Don’t tell me.”

“What?” his father squinted angrily at him. “What does it matter? We’ll be gone in a few days. Your mother keeps asking me whether you’re coming with us or not. Have you decided?”

Draco struggled to take a breath. He felt as though he was watching the scene unfold from somewhere above them; surely, it wasn’t possible that he was about to defy his father so ruthlessly. “The Portkey,” he started before his voice seized up.

“The Portkey? What about it?”

“It, er…”

The look on his father’s face was terrifying. He shut his eyes and said, in a dangerously soft voice, “Draco. You _will_ be bringing me the Portkey intact, won’t you?”

“I…”

Draco suddenly heard a sharp _creak_ behind him. Jumping up, he nearly knocked over the armchair. In the dark, he could just make out Nott standing at the foot of the staircase, his wand trained on Draco’s chest. He plunged his hand into his pocket and pulled out his wand when Nott barked: “ _Expelliarmus_!” His wand soared into the air; Nott caught it easily.

“Theo,” he breathed. “What the hell are you doing?”

“I could ask you the same question,” he said. Glancing at the fireplace, he asked, "That was your father you were speaking to, wasn't it?"

“Of course not,” he lied. “Could you put your wand down?”

“No.” Nott padded towards him, pocketing Draco’s wand; the expression on his face was inscrutable. “What Portkey were you talking about?”

“None of your business,” he snarled.

“Give it to me.”

“Can’t.” Although his heart was pounding, Draco set his shoulders back and raised his nose in as haughty a manner as he could manage. “I broke it.”

“Liar,” Nott spat. “Hand it over.” When Draco refused, Nott cried, “ _Accio_ Portkey!” Nothing happened.

“I’ve told you, I destroyed it.”

“It doesn’t matter, anyway,” he snapped. “It’s better that the Aurors find it themselves.” He jerked his head towards the common room entrance. “Go on.”

Anger flared up in Draco's chest. He wanted to resist, but without his wand, he was defenceless. He threw Nott one last withering look before walking slowly towards the entrance. Nott followed close behind, his wand nearly prodding into Draco’s back as they stepped into the corridor.

“Move. Down this way.”

As they walked along in silence, Draco hoped that someone might stumble upon them—Slughorn, perhaps, up late marking papers. Or maybe a prefect conducting their rounds. But, of course, he had no such luck. Instead, he tried his hand at distracting Nott. “This won’t get your father out of Azkaban, if that’s what you think.”

“Oh, really?” Nott scoffed. “You don’t think the Wizengamot would love to hear that your father planned to escape? And that you were his accomplice?”

Draco snorted. “Where’s your proof?”

“That Portkey. And the Ministry have ways of getting people to talk, as you well know…”

Despite himself, Draco recoiled as fear flooded through his body. If the Wizengamot decided to use Veritaserum on him, he was doomed. He had escaped Azkaban once, thanks to Harry, but he doubted he could manage it again. And what if they decided to use the Dementor’s Kiss on him?

“Stop here.” Nott yanked his arm as they arrived at an empty classroom. Draco growled, meaning to throw him off, but Nott twisted his wand deeper into his back. He pushed open the door and then shoved Draco inside. “McGonagall should be in her office soon,” he said. “You wait here.”

“Theo,” he gasped, catching himself on a desk. “This is mad. I’m telling you—this isn’t going to help your father. Listen to me.”

Something in Nott’s face shifted as their eyes briefly met, but then he looked away angrily. “I’m sorry, Draco. But my father…he’s old. He won’t survive in Azkaban. And I can’t bear for…” He swallowed thickly. “He’s all I have left. So, goodbye, Draco.” And with that, he shut the door.

Draco lunged forward, but it was too late—Nott was already warding the door with half a dozen spells. He looked around the classroom, searching for anything that might help him escape. There was nothing other than a few ancient desks and a blackboard hung at the front. Letting out an angry growl, he threw himself into a chair. In his frustration, he tore his satchel off his shoulder and threw it to the ground. Wait. How could he have been so stupid? His satchel.

He ripped open the drawstrings and dumped the contents of his bag onto the ground. Pushing aside _Flesh-Eating Trees of the World_ and _New Theory of Numerology_ , he snatched up his old wand. It felt awkward in his hand, but he raced to the door and tapped the knob, thinking, _‘Alohomora._ ’ Nothing. He stared down at it, confused. Perhaps he was so agitated that he couldn’t perform nonverbal magic. He tried again, this time shouting: “ _Alohomora_!” Still, the handle wouldn’t budge. Was it the wand? Or had Nott actually managed to produce a decent enough ward? Scanning the classroom, Draco pointed his wand at a crooked chair. “ _Bombarda_!” A single screw fell to the floor.

Draco felt almost betrayed. Why wouldn’t his old wand work for him? His fury gave way to panic as he struggled to think of some other means of escape. Sitting down next to the spilled contents of his satchel, he sifted through the inkpots and quills. In-between the pages of his _Rune Dictionary_ he found the Chocolate Frog card Daphne had given him in Hogsmeade. Draco snorted, turning the card in his hand. That trip to Hogsmeade felt like it had happened a decade ago. He couldn’t help but smile as the miniature Harry Potter depicted on the card looked up at him, brows furrowed.

“I wish you were here,” he mused. “You’d know what to do.” Harry blinked at him, and then walked out of the frame. Brilliant. He really was completely alone, now. Gently, he placed the card back into his satchel and then went on to peruse the bits of parchment scattered on the floor. Nothing useful. To calm his nerves, he started to put everything back into his bag, separating out the broken quills and empty inkpots. To throw out later, he told himself. As though the state of his satchel would really matter once he was apprehended by the Ministry.

Sitting back against a desk, Draco wondered how McGonagall might react. Would she come and interrogate Draco herself, or would she immediately call for the Aurors? And what sort of evidence would they need to administer Veritaserum? He wished desperately that he had studied wizarding law. Would his past history as a Death Eater count against him? More than likely, it would. And he doubted very much that Harry would be able to come to his defence a second time. He wondered absently what Nott was doing. He wanted to hate him, but his own aching need to protect his father—no matter what a cowardly, pathetic idiot he was—still nagged at him. In a sense, he could understand Nott’s position. Of course, it didn’t make him any less of a bastard.

What hurt the most—and Draco absolutely did _not_ want to think about it—was the prospect of never seeing Harry again. Once the Aurors interrogated him, Draco imagined that he and his father would be brought to Azkaban. Surely, they wouldn’t allow his father to remain in the Manor any longer, not when he was so clearly at risk of escaping. Maybe Harry would visit him in Azkaban, although that might be worse…he flinched at the thought of Harry seeing him in a cell. If they gave him the Dementor’s Kiss, perhaps that wouldn’t be so bad. He couldn’t grieve without a soul, could he?

Draco rose to his feet and thought of Severus. He would have despised this sort of melodramatic, defeatist talk. What would Severus do in this situation? Find a way out, no doubt. Or, if he couldn’t, face his executioners with as much dignity as he could muster. But Draco wasn’t brave. He was frightened, and he started to pace the room as he felt another episode creeping on. He needed to calm down, because he would be helpless if he fell into a full-on panic, but it was so difficult when the anxiety threatened to drive him to his knees. His heart felt as though it would burst, it was beating so hard. He thought he was going to die—but maybe that wouldn’t be the worst thing, dying…he would see Severus again, Dumbledore, even Vincent…he would be able to apologize in-person…he wondered, his thoughts racing, if the Dark Lord would be there, too...

He yelped and nearly jumped out of his skin as the door flew open with a loud _bang._ He tried to pull himself together, refusing to allow Nott to see him gripped in fear—but it was Harry standing in the doorway. Harry and Daphne.

“Draco,” Harry breathed, shoving his wand into his pocket and then hurrying towards him. “Draco, are you hurt? Are you alright?” He must have forgotten that Daphne was there, because he gripped Draco’s arms, checking him over, before pulling him into a suffocating embrace.

“I’m fine,” he muttered. “I’m fine, I promise. Just…shaken up.”

“Draco!” Daphne was at his side, rubbing his arm. “What happened?”

“It was…it was Nott.” Draco looked over at Daphne, her wide eyes staring up at him, full of concern. He decided that there was no point in lying to her. “I had to talk to my father, by Floo. And somehow, Nott…he knew. Or he heard me go down to the common room, I don’t know. But he took my wand and forced me to stay here until he could find McGonagall.”

“But why?” Harry demanded, looking murderous.

“He wanted to turn me in to the Ministry." Addressing Daphne, he said, “My father asked me to help him escape when we found out they were planning to use the Dementor's Kiss. But I've decided to stop helping him…that’s why we spoke tonight, I was trying to tell him, but anyway…”

“Nott thought he would give you to the Wizengamot in exchange for his father’s freedom,” Harry said flatly.

“That’s awful,” Daphne whispered.

“Yeah. I mean…he’s afraid for his father. He reckons they plan to use the Dementor’s Kiss on him, as well.”

“Don’t you worry about that now, Draco,” Daphne said, patting his back soothingly. “That isn’t your concern. I’m just glad we found you in time.”

“How did you know I was here?” he asked, pulling out of Harry's arms to be able to speak to them properly. Harry didn’t seem capable of answering—he was breathless, studying Draco’s face as though he had never seen him properly before.

“It was the Chocolate Frog card!” Daphne said. “I was up late, I couldn’t sleep…it’s been bothering me, thinking about what the others said, about Dean…so I was up sorting my Chocolate Frog cards, when the Harry Potter card started waving at me! Jumping in the frame, flapping his arms everywhere, it was actually quite funny…and the portraits in the cards can’t speak, you know, but I realized he was mouthing something to me: your name!”

Draco stared at her, dazed.

“So I went to your dorm—I know I shouldn’t, but anyway, everyone was asleep. And you weren’t there! So I ran to the Gryffindor Tower, and I woke up Harry, and then he used that, that map…”

“Wait.” Draco massaged his temples; a headache had started to erupt. “How did you get into the Gryffindor common room?”

“Oh, that.” Daphne blushed. “Dean told me the password. Sometimes, when no one’s around, we…erm…meet.”

“Right. And what map are you talking about?”

Daphne looked up at Harry. Grinning ruefully, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a worn piece of parchment. “The Marauder’s Map,” he told Draco before handing it to him.

“Is this…Hogwarts? And are those…?” He pointed to a dot labeled ‘Draco Malfoy.' Next to it were two dots labeled 'Harry Potter' and 'Daphne Greengrass.'

“Everyone in the castle,” Harry said. “I got it from Fred and George in my third year, but it’s my father who made it…my father and his friends.”

Draco traced the lines on the parchment. He didn't know what to say.

“I’ve used it loads, over the years. You drove me mad in sixth year, because I could never find you on it…I realized it was because you were always in the Room of Requirement, and it’s unplottable…”

“So Harry used his map, and we saw right away that you were here in this classroom!” Daphne said brightly. “It was no trouble at all, finding you. Isn’t that so clever, Draco?”

“But…but…” He was lost for words.

“You’ve had a fright,” said Daphne. “Why don’t we get you back to bed?”

“Absolutely not,” Harry said at once. “You are _not_ going back to that dormitory.”

“But, Harry…if Theo tells McGonagall, and then she goes looking for Draco…” Daphne said worriedly.

“She won’t. Because I’m going to have a little chat with him right now.” Taking back his map, Harry shot Daphne a meaningful look. “Can you bring Draco to the Room of Requirement?”

“I’m not an invalid,” Draco complained. “I’m fine.”

“Well, I’m not,” Harry said, meeting his gaze. Draco felt rather faint at the fierce look on his face. “I’m not leaving you out of my sight…after I take care of this, anyway.” He brandished the map.

“Just…just get my wand back, would you?” he whispered.

Harry gave him a lopsided smile. “’Course.” And, even though Daphne was _right there_ , he leaned forward and kissed him firmly on the lips. Smirking at Draco’s stunned expression, he took his hand and squeezed it before striding out of the room.

Daphne was unbothered. “Come on, Draco,” she said gently. “Let’s get you to the Room of Requirement.”

As they walked through the dark corridors together, Daphne humming softly to herself, Draco tried desperately to fend off the panic still gripping his chest. Every shadow threatened to be an Auror, come to drag him to Azkaban; each _creak_ and _crack_ set his nerves on edge. He jumped violently when Daphne suddenly said, “I’m so glad you kept that Chocolate Frog card, Draco.”

“S-so am I," Draco mumbled. As she resumed her humming, he glanced over at her nervously. "Daphne, er…you won’t tell anyone about this, will you?”

“Of course I won’t!” she said, affronted. “Not even Dean. Your secret’s safe with me.”

“Yeah? Even…even…Harry and I…?”

She threw back her head and laughed. “You’re so silly. You really think you’re subtle, don’t you?”

“I…” He was at a loss for words.

“Don’t worry,” she reassured him, “I doubt the others know. Honestly,” she lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “I don't think any of them can imagine the possibility that you and Harry might not hate each other. You could snog right in front of them and they’d come up with an excuse.”

He chuckled weakly. “You might be right.”

“Draco,” Daphne said as they ascended the final staircase to the seventh floor. “What's going to happen to your father? You said you’re not helping him anymore, right? So does that mean…”

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I don’t know what’s going to happen. I never even had the chance to warn him before Nott interrupted us. So…I don’t know.”

“Oh, I see,” she said softly. “I’m sorry. That’s quite sad.”

“It is.” The entire mess was very sad indeed.


	28. xxviii.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may enjoy the song I listened to while writing this chapter:
> 
> Unknown by Samuel Bohn
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7NWFSZpQ7Jo
> 
> As always, my eternal gratitude to all of you for reading and enjoying this story.

Draco was nearly asleep in the large four-poster bed when Harry finally burst through the door. The room was dark, the fire in the grate having burned down to embers, but he recognized Harry right away as he strode towards the bed. He made to sit up, but Harry immediately covered his body with his, holding his face so that he could examine him from all angles.

“Are you alright?”

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” Draco grumbled. “He didn’t even do anything to me. Just pushed me around a bit.”

Draco would never admit it, but he had known Harry’s temper would flare at that, and it did. Growling, he pushed himself more firmly onto Draco, taking him into his arms possessively.

Grinning to himself, Draco trailed his hands along the length of Harry’s back. “So what happened when you found him? What did he say?”

Harry rolled his eyes. “He’s a bit of a coward, really. About lost his mind when he saw me coming down the hall.” Draco sniggered. “I asked for your wand back, and I told him…well, it doesn’t matter,” he said hastily.

“Harry. What have you done?”

“I just…he’ll never bother you again, trust me.”

Draco raised his eyebrows. “You’re a Gryffindor, so I’ll assume that using your status as the Chosen One and threatening someone’s father with Azkaban is beneath you.”

“Look,” Harry said, reaching around to his back pocket. “Your wand!”

Draco allowed himself to be distracted: he couldn’t believe the sense of relief he felt at the sight of his wand. Without it, he had felt exposed, vulnerable, defenceless. Some of his strength seemed to come back as he pocketed it.

“I was so worried about you,” Harry muttered, studying his face. “When Daphne came in and told me you weren’t in bed—I about lost my mind.”

“A great big production for nothing,” Draco sniffed. It had been a while since he and Harry had been in a proper bed together, and he relished the warmth of his body, his reassuring weight.

“It wasn’t nothing,” Harry said quietly. “I thought…I don’t know, that the Ministry had gotten you, or somehow your father had done something awful…”

“Hey,” Draco said, alarmed at the fearful look on Harry's face. “Nothing’s happened. I’m right here.” He reached forward and took Harry’s hand in his, bringing it to cup his face. “See? Right here.”

“I know,” said Harry, looking down at their linked hands. “I know that.”

“Tell me what’s wrong.”

“I just can’t believe he—Nott—he would…” Harry sat up abruptly, straddling Draco's lap. Face red with anger, he spat, “I can’t believe he would _touch_ you. Force you out of the common room—in your pyjamas! Anyone could have seen.”

Draco laughed. “That was the least of my concerns. And I don’t really think I’m Nott’s type, so you have nothing to worry about there.”

“I don’t care,” Harry said shortly. He had that intense, stern look in his eyes as he said, “You’re mine.”

“Don’t like other people touching your plaything, do you?” he smirked.

Harry leaned forward and pinned Draco’s wrists above his head. “You know it’s more than that,” he breathed. “And that’s the problem.”

“Problem?”

Harry shook his head. “You are so dense, sometimes.”

“Oi!” Pretending to be offended, Draco struggled against Harry playfully, but he refused to loosen his tight grip.

“I’ve told you before, I’m mad for you," Harry said. "And I keep telling myself this has been a big mistake, because if something were to happen to you, if I were to lose you…”

“You’re not going to lose me, you idiot,” Draco said weakly. He melted at the fierce look in Harry’s eyes.

“I’ve had enough of this sneaking around,” Harry growled. “That Chosen One rubbish—The Boy Who Lived Twice—you know how much I hate it.” He rolled his hips forward; Draco gasped. “But _nobody_ would touch you if they knew you were mine.”

Draco didn’t want Harry to see the extent to which his words affected him, and so he quipped, “Possessive, aren’t you?”

“It’s more than that,” Harry insisted. “You _know_ that. You’ve known for a while now.”

Incapable of breathing, Draco stared up at Harry, stunned.

“I’m done playing around, just so that everyone else feels comfortable. You are mine, and I am yours, and that is it.”

“Well, then, I’m done playing around, too,” Draco said, summoning his courage. “Why won’t you let me touch you? Whatever the reason, just tell me. I can take it.”

Harry squeezed his eyes shut. “It’s nothing to do with you.”

“Tell me. Please. I’ve told you everything, haven’t I?” Draco tugged at Harry's hands. “If we’re going to do this—really make a go of it—you have to stop pushing me away.”

“It’s not that easy.”

“I wish you would just trust me.”

“I do.”

“So tell me.”

Harry shifted off of Draco’s lap and came to lay beside him. Propping himself up on one elbow, he fiddled with the buttons on Draco’s shirt.“You remember what I told you the first time we kissed?”

Draco remembered very clearly, although he didn’t enjoy reliving the conversation. “You said you were…anxious.”

“Yeah. At the start of the year, I was really…really drawn to you.” Harry, who was rarely ever shy in front of him, blushed and looked away; Draco found it unbearably compelling. “Because you looked…you looked the way I felt.”

“Which was?”

“Scared,” Harry whispered. “Terrified. Like we were still in the middle of the battle. And everyone else was acting normal, as though nothing had happened, as though they all just wanted to move on.”

“But all year, you've looked fine,” Draco said. “I feel like _nothing_ ever bothers you.”

Harry gave a bitter smile. “Yeah. I’ve gotten rather good at that. Years of practice. And over the summer, that’s the only way I got through it all. I just sort of…bottled it all up.”

“You know that’s not healthy, right?” Draco said warily. “You can’t go on like this forever.” When Harry said nothing, he sighed. “So, you feel all the…the panic?” Harry nodded. “Like you’re going to be sick, and you can’t breathe, and you just know something awful is about to happen, even though you can’t say what? And you think you might die from fear?”

“That’s it. That’s exactly it.”

“Nightmares?”

“All the time,” Harry said instantly. “Awful, awful nightmares. The worst ones I’ve ever had. It just fucking kills me, because now that Voldemort’s gone, the nightmares are supposed to stop. It’s all supposed to go back to normal. That’s…that’s how it should be, right? I _died_ to get rid of Voldemort. The least I deserve is to feel normal for once.”

“You're right."

“There are loads of spots in the castle I avoid,” Harry continued. “Thank God for the map—the one I showed you. I know all the secret passageways and the shortcuts, so I can still get around.”

“Harry,” Draco murmured, “that’s awful.”

“It’s been rough. And I think Ron and Hermione are sort of weirded out, because before this I’d always been…moody.”

“I do remember you having a bit of a temper,” Draco said delicately.

Harry scoffed. “It was more than ‘a bit.’ And we talked about it and I thought, well, maybe now that Voldemort’s soul isn’t in me anymore, I’m not so miserable. And I think that might be true. But I’m also so…numb. And to be honest, I make myself that way. Just to keep it all under control, you know, to try not to feel too much.”

“Harry,” Draco sighed, exasperated. “You _know_ that isn’t healthy. Why haven’t you gone to Madam Pomfrey? Or to see a Healer?”

“Because they’ll make me feel it,” he said in a low voice. “Feel everything I don’t want to feel. I can’t. I really, really can’t.”

“What don’t you want to feel?”

“Guilt, for starters.” Harry looked ready to cry. “In my mind, right, I can see everyone in the Great Hall…everyone who…”

Draco took Harry into his arms. He didn’t need to hear it; he knew what Harry meant.

“You have to let me in,” he said quietly. “Please. Just one little bit at a time.”

“You about killed me tonight,” Harry said, his voice cracking. “When Daphne came in and said something was wrong, you weren’t in your bed…God, you don’t even know…”

“I’m fine, I’m fine. I’m right here.”

“If something happens to you…if I lose you…I will completely fall apart. Do you hear me? I won't survive it. So I can’t…I have to keep some distance.”

“No, you don’t.”

Harry shook his head violently into the crook of Draco’s neck. “You don’t understand,” Harry said bleakly. “I’ll fall apart.”

“And?” Finding his resolve, Draco grasped the bottom of Harry’s jumper. “I’m right here to pick up the pieces.”

Harry grabbed Draco’s wrists. The expression on his face was uncharacteristically stern. “If you do this, you have to be sure. You have to be absolutely sure. Because I don’t think I could handle it if you, if…”

“I’m sure.” He eased his wrists out of Harry’s grasp. “I promise, I’m sure.” He gave Harry a firm kiss before lifting his jumper over his arms and tossing it somewhere to the side. Next, he pulled off Harry’s shirt, laughing when it snagged on his glasses.

“Give those here,” he said. Carefully, he took Harry’s glasses, folding them and leaning over to set them down on the floor. Draco slid the tips of his fingers across Harry’s chest. Down they went, slipping past his navel, until Draco flattened his palms onto Harry’s skin and trailed his hands back up to grip his shoulders. “Alright?”

“Yeah.” Harry took a deep breath. “Alright.” Climbing into Harry's lap, Draco cupped his face and leaned in to kiss him. His encounter with Nott had left him unsteady, ill at ease, but now he found himself anchored as they kissed. When Harry pulled off his shirt, goosebumps prickled along his arms. He purred as Harry held him close. He was warm, so warm, and Draco already felt drunk with need as he kissed along Harry’s neck. He had never been allowed to do this before, and instantly, he knew that he had to make up for lost time. Harry made breathy little noises as he brushed his lips across his neck. Gently, he bit down on the soft flesh, grinning to himself when Harry gave a loud groan.

Draco could feel that Harry was hard beneath him, and it drove him mad. He pushed his hips forward, smirking as Harry swore under his breath.

“What do you want?” Draco asked, lightly dragging his fingernails up and down Harry’s arms. He pulled back to look at Harry’s face, and he felt absolutely giddy when he blushed and turned away. “Don’t be shy,” he coaxed him. “You can tell me.”

Harry shook his head, embarrassed. Laughing, Draco began to trail a winding line of kisses down Harry’s neck, past his collarbone, and onto his chest. He pressed his palm against one of his nipples before stroking it with his thumb; just as Harry gave a sharp inhale, he bent forward and took it in his mouth, sucking softly. That, Harry seemed to enjoy very much.

“Shit,” he hissed, his fingers tangling into Draco’s hair.

As he licked and sucked, Draco reached up and palmed Harry’s other nipple. He felt him shudder. “What do you want?” he repeated.

All at once, Harry was pushing him down onto the mattress. Butterflies swarmed wildly in his stomach at the heated look on Harry’s face.

“Want to fuck you,” Harry muttered, his eyes hazy.

“Yeah?” Draco gasped.

“Mmm.” Harry rocked against him as he pressed their lips together. Draco knew he wouldn’t last if Harry kept on like this.

“Too much clothes,” he said, reaching down to pull off Harry’s jeans. At his touch, Harry froze, and Draco could practically feel him withdrawing under his hands. “You’re fine. I promise, you’re fine. I’m right here.” Slowly, Harry relented, sitting up to kick off his shoes and his socks. As he pushed down his jeans and his pants, Draco decided that he no longer cared how desperate he looked—he instantly crawled back into Harry’s lap, kissing him roughly.

“And what about you?” Harry murmured against his lips.

“You’ve seen me naked plenty of times.”

“Not nearly often enough.” He pulled off Draco’s bottoms.

“Is that so?” Naked, Draco could feel Harry’s cock dragging against his thighs. His heart clenched painfully when he realized that Harry was already leaking; he could feel the wetness. “Fuck,” he mumbled, unable to stop himself. He was nearly delirious with need, but he told himself to slow down. He finally had access to Harry, and he planned to take advantage.

Harry grit out another one of those dizzying moans as Draco reached down to grip his cock. It was warm and heavy in his hand. He stroked slowly, watching as Harry’s head fell back.

“I want you in my mouth so bad,” Draco told him, shivering as Harry thrust into his hand. “You don’t know how long I’ve thought about this.”

“Yeah? Since we first kissed?” Harry asked absently.

“Oh, no, far before then,” he drawled. He squeezed and then rubbed his palm along the slick tip; Harry’s mouth fell open. “I distinctly remember a time in…fifth year, was it?...I happened to walk by the Quidditch pitch and saw you polishing your broom. Your hands…fuck, Harry. Just the sight of your hands ruined me.”

Harry grinned. “You’re kidding.”

“Not at all.” Draco released Harry’s cock. Ignoring his angry protests, he began to kiss his way down his stomach. As he went, he said in a conversational tone, “Actually, no. I think the first time was in fourth year. When I saw you in your dress robes, at the Yule Ball, I wanted you to take me right there.”

“Draco!” Harry gave a strangled laugh and covered his face. “You’re terrible.”

He hummed to himself, lapping at a spot just next to Harry’s cock. He meant to drive him absolutely mad. “God, I was a slut for you. But what can I say? I wanted to be fucked by the Hogwarts Champion. And you need to know something.” He took Harry’s cock in his hand once again, pumping it a few times. “Cauldwell, Bradley, all the rest…every single time, I thought of you.”

“You’re lying.” Harry gaped at him.

“I’m not,” he said simply. “Ask Bradley yourself—every time I came, I shouted your name. He thought it was funny. God, I was obsessed with you. Why did you think I had to learn Occlumency so quickly?”

Harry looked as though he wanted to say something, but his response was cut short as Draco suddenly slid his cock into his mouth. He took him as deeply as he could, preening at the sound of Harry’s breathless moans. He sucked him at a leisurely pace, holding the base of his cock with one hand. As Harry started to thrust into his mouth, he pulled away, grinning cruelly. Running his fist loosely up Harry’s cock, he lapped at the tip, pleased as Harry leaked onto his fingers. Draco felt as though he would come undone from that sight alone; Harry, for his part, was mumbling his name as his hands twisted through the sheets.

“I've gotten you all riled up, I see,” Draco taunted him, shifting to sit in Harry’s lap. Instantly, Harry sat up, pulling him into a kiss. Draco could nearly weep for need. While he had anticipated this moment, he hadn’t expected the thrill that passed over him whenever Harry moaned into his mouth, or the gymnastics his stomach executed when their eyes met. His head was full of nothing but _Harry, Harry, Harry._ And Harry seemed to be of a similar mind, his eyes clouded with lust as he lowered Draco onto his back. Draco felt an exhilarating frisson leap through his body as Harry reached down and slipped his hand along his arse. His touch was unbelievably intimate.

“I’ve never done this before,” Harry said, burying his face into the crook of Draco’s neck.

“You mean…with blokes? Or at all?”

“At all,” came the muffled reply.

Draco felt very much like the cat that got the cream. Grinning to himself, he pushed on Harry’s shoulders so that they came face-to-face. “So this is your first time.”

“Like that, do you?” Harry’s face was pink.

“I do like that.” He smirked as he pushed the hair from Harry’s face. “I like that very much. Do you know what to do?”

“A bit,” Harry whispered. “Hermione, er…gave me a book. And so I learned, er…”

Highly amused, Draco watched as Harry reached over the side of the bed for his wand. “Careful where you point that,” he warned.

Sniggering, Harry trailed his wand along the sides of his fingers.

“Lubricant spell,” Draco noted. “Nonverbal, too. Impressive.”

Harry smiled as he placed his wand back onto the floor. “Right,” he said, suddenly serious. “You’ll tell me if it hurts.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “For God’s sake, Harry, I’m not a virgin on my wedding night.”

Ignoring his barb, Harry scooted down lower onto the bed, his eyes drifting across Draco’s body. In spite of himself, Draco was suddenly self-conscious. Harry gently pushed his knees apart, settling between them. They both seemed to hold their breath as the reality of the situation hit them. After hesitating for a moment, Harry began to circle him with two fingers. He glanced up at Draco's face before slowly, luridly, taking his cock into his mouth. Within minutes, Draco was whining in frustration. Harry kept his touch feather-light, occasionally dipping his fingers deeper before drawing out again. All at once, Draco was startled by the realization that those were _Harry_ ’s fingers, grazing across him—that was _Harry_ ’s mouth, taking him deeply before easing back. At the thought, he gave a sharp moan and covered his face with his arms. And, of course, Harry reached up with his unoccupied hand to pull them away.

“Deeper,” Draco groaned. “Go deeper. I’m fine.”

Harry chuckled, and Draco expected him to resist. Instead, he complied, penetrating him with two fingers. Draco gasped—at Harry’s worried face, he mumbled, “I’m fine. I’m fine. Just… _fuck._ ”

“Is this alright?” Harry asked, pushing in a bit further and then almost entirely withdrawing.

“Yeah. S'good.” As he adjusted to the stretch, Draco felt himself clench with a pleasurable sort of pain. “More,” he said. Again, Harry obeyed him, introducing a third finger and pushing in further. The initial burn subsided faster this time, and he soon found himself rocking against Harry’s fingers.

“Fuck, look at you,” Harry said, his voice filled with awe. “I could watch you all day, like this. Fucking yourself on my fingers.”

Harry’s words filled him with a feverish longing. “Fuck me, Harry. Please, please fuck me.”

“Are you sure?”

Draco growled in frustration. “I’m sure, I’m sure. Come _on._ ” He moaned in satisfaction as Harry finally climbed on top of him.

“You’ll let me know if it’s too much.”

“Yes, yes, yes,” he said impatiently. “How do you want me?”

“Like this,” Harry said. “Just like this. Want to see your face.”

He watched as Harry took himself in hand, spreading the remaining lubricant onto his cock. Draco couldn’t help himself—he groaned loudly as he felt Harry press against him. “ _Yes_ ,” he hissed as slowly, carefully, Harry pushed his way through. He had expected the initial discomfort, and so he tangled his hands into the sheets and breathed through it.

“Alright?” Harry asked, his voice raspy. He looked very much the way Draco felt: overwhelmed and nearly dizzy with need.

“Go on,” Draco encouraged him, pushing back. “I can take it.” And he did take it—took all of it as Harry filled him. He opened his mouth to ask Harry to move, but he was cut short as Harry, reading his mind, eased out and then back in, holding Draco’s knees for support. The aching burn soon gave way to pleasure as Draco arched his back, pushing into Harry’s thrusts. He watched as Harry experienced his first time, and the very thought was so erotic that it threatened to completely undo him. Harry’s swollen lips were parted, and his eyes had fluttered shut.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” Harry gasped. “You feel so good.”

“Yeah?” Draco couldn’t stop himself any longer. He reached down and took hold of his cock, stroking in time with Harry’s thrusts.

Harry opened his eyes. “Look at you,” he breathed. “God, you take it so good. So good for me.”

Draco gave a sharp cry at that, bucking against him. Harry smirked and took hold of his hips, dragging him somehow impossibly closer.

“Wish you could see yourself right now,” Harry continued. “Fuck, you drive me crazy.”

“Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me,” he repeated like a prayer. He had lost any sense of reticence as he writhed, unwound by the sound of Harry’s voice. They fell into a rhythm, Draco gasping each and every time Harry's cock drove into him. "Yes, Harry, yes," he rambled. His heart thundered against his ribs, threatening to burst through them.

"You're incredible," Harry said, giving a breathless laugh.

“I’m so close. I’m so close.” His fist flew over his cock as he chased the incredible surge of pleasure racing through him.

Harry quickened his pace to match him, and they quickly fell out of sync, but no matter; he was close to losing his mind as Harry thrust into him.

“Come for me,” Harry rasped. That was it. Draco couldn't hang on a moment longer. His body tensed as the warm coil in his stomach tightened. He felt nothing, heard nothing as one, two, three seconds passed, and then his orgasm ripped out of him. He spilled onto his own stomach, shouting Harry’s name as his head fell back. Almost instantly, Harry tumbled after him, eyes squeezed shut as he cried. It was an image he knew he would never forget: Harry’s mouth hung open, his cheeks ruddy, his chest gleaming with sweat, gasping with the force of his release.

As he slowed down, Harry seemed reluctant to pull out. He blinked at Draco for a moment, reveling in the bliss that Draco himself was basking in, until finally he pulled away. He reached over once more for his wand, and with a sharp flick cleaned them both.

“You’ve been practicing your nonverbal magic,” Draco purred as Harry came to lay next to him.

“Of course. What did you think I was learning it for?” Harry shot him a cheeky grin.

Shaking his head, Draco laughed. “Right. How silly of me.” He reached out to slowly trace his finger down the bridge of Harry’s nose.

Harry looked into his eyes and hesitated. “Was…was it…”

“If you ask me whether it was ‘alright,’ Potter, I’ll hex you into next week.”

Grinning shyly, Harry took Draco’s hand into his and pressed it against his chest. “Feel how hard my heart’s beating.”

“You’ve had quite the workout.” He began to absently draw figures on Harry’s skin, watching the rise and fall of his chest.

“I’m an idiot for waiting so long,” he said, his expression contrite.

“Never mind that. You had your reasons.” Studying Harry’s face, Draco asked, “And what about you? Are you alright?”

“Yeah. I just…yeah.”

Draco pushed off the mattress in alarm. “What? What is it?” he demanded, suddenly anxious.

“It’s nothing like that,” Harry said hastily, pulling Draco back down towards him. “It’s just, ah…”

“Out with it.”

Obstinate as ever, Harry looked away.

“You’ve suddenly realized you don’t like blokes?” Draco offered drily.

“Definitely not,” he assured him. “It's just that I, er…I like you. I like you quite a lot, actually.”

“Oh, you like me, do you?” Draco drawled, resuming his task of tracing patterns across Harry’s chest. “I never noticed.”

“I love you.”

Draco froze. He looked up at Harry’s face, which was bright red now.

“Forget it, forget it,” Harry said, staring somewhere above Draco’s shoulder. “Forget I said anything.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Harry,” he smirked, leaning forward to kiss him. As he pulled away, he said, “I love you, too, you big prat.”

“Yeah?” Harry looked quite dazed, as though he didn’t believe his ears.

Rolling his eyes, Draco curled up against Harry’s chest. “Obviously. You’re very obtuse sometimes, you know. Haven’t you ever seen the way I look at you?”

“I guess so.”

Draco scoffed. “You guess so? What do you use your eyes for, decoration?”

He smiled as he felt the rumble of Harry’s laughter. They lay like that, Draco tucked against Harry’s chest, Harry rubbing his hand along Draco’s back, until finally they both drifted off to sleep.


	29. xxix.

It was an unusually warm December afternoon. Huddled in the courtyard together, Draco and Harry poured over the Marauder’s Map. Most of the students had left for the holidays; of the Slytherins, only Draco and Greg stayed behind. None of the other Gryffindors remained. They took full advantage, falling asleep together each night in Harry’s bed. If Greg noticed Draco’s absence, he never said. At meals, they sat together at the Slytherin table. Draco absolutely refused to allow Harry to hold his hand or to kiss him in public—that, he maintained, was going too far. And so they limited themselves to exchanging sly smiles and the occasional double-entendre. They attracted, of course, plenty of attention. Now that they were inseparable, the whispers had begun in earnest, but Harry didn’t seem to care—in fact, Draco thought that he rather enjoyed spurring them on. It was the only possible explanation for his brazen winks in Draco’s direction and his insistence on walking down to the Great Hall together every morning for breakfast. If he thought about it for too long, Draco felt dizzy, and so he allowed himself to follow Harry’s lead, trusting that he knew what to do.

The Marauder’s Map was an endless source of fascination for Draco. Never before had he seen such a detailed plan of Hogwarts. They often sat together tracing the dots across the map, laughing as they watched Filch chase Peeves around the Trophy Room or whenever they caught Anthony Goldstein spending far too long in the prefects’ bathroom. Harry showed Draco all of the hidden passageways, enjoying his reactions as he learned of Hogwarts’ many secrets. As they leaned over the map, Harry pointed out the tunnel to Honeydukes, explaining how he had managed to sneak into Hogsmeade in third year.

“I knew I’d seen you!” Draco shoved him playfully. “By the Shrieking Shack!”

“Yeah,” Harry said, a guilty grin on his face. “That was me.”

“I don’t know how you get any homework done,” Draco said, pressing his palm along the worn parchment. “I’d spend hours staring at this. It’s so interesting, seeing everyone go about their lives.”

Harry snorted. “I spent a _lot_ of time in sixth year watching you.”

“Did you really?”

“Yeah. And, er, I’ve been keeping tabs on you more recently, too.”

Draco looked up at him. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, look,” Harry said suddenly, pointing at the map. “Peeves is headed back to the Trophy Room."

“Harry.”

“I just…I wanted to keep an eye on you. Make sure you were alright.”

“Is that so?” Draco said archly.

“It drove Ron and Hermione mad, actually,” Harry said, rubbing the back of his neck. His embarrassment amused Draco to no end. “That’s why Ron…that’s why he went down to the Quidditch pitch, that time he caught you in the changing room.”

“Why, you saw Zabini and I on the map?”

“Yeah," Harry admitted. "I’d been watching you for the most of the day, and then I saw you go down to the pitch with the other Slytherins…and then you went into the changing room with Nott and Zabini, so I got a bit worked up, I guess…”

“And you sent Weasley?”

“No!” Harry replied, blushing. “I didn’t _send_ him. He was tired of me mooning around and said he’d go check it himself.”

“The one bright idea he’s ever had."

Harry elbowed him, laughing.

“So they know, then? Your friends?”

“Well…” Harry leaned back, considering his question. “They sort of figured it out on their own. Once we had our—our row—I was a bit upset.”

“You seemed fine to me.”

“I wasn’t,” Harry said. “And, anyway, Hermione suspected us already.”

“Because you aren’t subtle at all,” Draco complained. He watched as the small dot labeled ‘Mrs. Norris’ slunk down the fifth-floor corridor. Nodding at the Marauder’s map, Draco said, “Show me again how to wipe it.”

Harry took out his wand and gently tapped the parchment. “Mischief managed.” Instantly, the lines of ink began to dry up.

“I would have gotten so much use out of that map,” Draco said wistfully.

“Good, isn’t it?” Harry beamed. “I don’t know what I’ll do with it once I leave Hogwarts.”

“Pass it on to the next generation of Gryffindor troublemakers, I imagine.”

Laughing, Harry pocketed the map. “Probably.”

“Here’s the book I meant to show you,” Draco said, pulling open his satchel. “On nonverbal magic. I’d forgotten about it. I used it loads in fifth year…” As Draco rummaged through his things, his stomach dropped at the sight of his old wand.

“What is it?” Harry asked at once.

“Nothing. It’s nothing. I mean…” Draco hesitated, wondering whether he was being silly. “You know when Nott locked me in that classroom?” He felt Harry stiffen. “I had my old wand, from when you gave it back to me.” Gently, he pulled out the hawthorn wand, turning it in his hand. “I tried to use it to escape, you know, thought I could unlock the door or something…but it didn’t listen to me at all.”

“You were panicked,” Harry said.

“I guess. But…it felt odd. Like it didn’t recognize me.”

“What if you try now?”

Draco gripped the base of his old wand; it felt strange in his palm. “ _Lumos._ ” Nothing happened. “You see? It doesn’t listen.”

“Maybe now that you have a new wand, the old one has no allegiance to you?” Harry suggested.

“I guess. But even so, I should be able to produce _some_ magic with it.” Something about the wand’s lack of response bothered Draco deeply; he covered up his discomfort by tucking it away. “Anyway, this book.” He pulled out _Nuances of Nonverbal Magic_. “You’ll like it.”

“What? You’re not going to help me with nonverbal magic anymore?” Harry asked, giving him a mischievous smile.

“As if we ever practice,” Draco scoffed. “All of our practice sessions devolve into something else.”

“We practice loads,” Harry insisted, leaning forward to plant a kiss on Draco’s shoulder. “All kinds of things.”

“Mr. Malfoy?”

Draco jumped violently. Looking up, he froze at the sight of Proudfoot standing in the colonnade, smiling at them. He made to shift away, but Harry was having none of it, placing his hand firmly on Draco’s back.

“I thought we might do your evaluation, Mr. Malfoy,” Proudfoot called.

“Evaluation, sir?”

“That’s right. The Headmistress wants us to sit down with the eighth years to discuss their internships,” he said.

“But Professor Slughorn is my Head of House,” Draco said. He looked over at Harry, who shrugged.

“That’s true,” Proudfoot acknowledged. “But because I’m overseeing the study sessions, I’ve been asked to evaluate you two gentlemen. I thought we might do it now, while you’re both here for the holidays.”

“Right.” Draco stood, shouldering his satchel.

As Harry gathered his things, Proudfoot said, “I’ll come for you later, Mr. Potter.” At the skeptical look on Harry’s face, he chuckled. “I promise to return Mr. Malfoy to you perfectly unscathed.”

“I’ll be fine,” Draco teased him. “Wait for me here.” He pressed _Nuances of Nonverbal Magic_ into Harry’s hands before following Proudfoot back into the castle.

“And how was your first term, Mr. Malfoy?” Proudfoot asked him as they strode down the corridor.

“Fine, sir,” he said. “I, er…you were right. About me finishing out my year.”

“I’m glad you think so,” he said mildly. “I happen to agree.” They passed by Flitwick, who gave them a genial smile as he scurried down the hall. “Is there any particular reason you chose not to go home for the holidays?”

“Oh, er…” Embarrassed, Draco cleared his throat. “I just wanted to catch up on my schoolwork. I’m sitting seven N.E.W.T.s, so I’ve been busy.”

“And you told your parents you wouldn’t be home?”

Frowning, Draco said, “Yes, sir. I wrote my father.”

“And how is he supposed to escape without the Portkey, I wonder?”

Draco stopped. He couldn’t breathe. Surely he must have misheard.

“Keep moving, Mr. Malfoy,” Proudfoot said evenly.

Not knowing what else to do, Draco continued down the corridor, Proudfoot close behind him.

“Do you have it on you? The Portkey?”

Draco shook his head. _‘How does he know?’_ he thought wildly, his heart hammering in his chest. He cursed himself for telling Harry to wait in the courtyard.

As they arrived in the entrance hall, Draco made for the staircase, but Proudfoot gently took his elbow and steered him towards the dungeons. “To your common room, I think. Lead the way.”

They walked along in silence. Draco desperately wished that he and Harry could communicate telepathically. In his mind, he urged Harry to check the Marauder’s Map. If there was ever a time for his possessive paranoia, this was it. Surely, if Draco were gone for a while, Harry would come looking for him. Wouldn’t he?

Arriving at the blank space of wall concealing the Slytherin common room, Draco decided that he just wouldn't give the password. His heart fell when Proudfoot said, “Wampus cat.” As the stone door slid open, Proudfoot motioned for him to enter. Nervous, he stepped into the common room, hoping that perhaps one of the few Slytherins who had stayed behind for the holidays might be there. No such luck.

“To your dormitory, then,” Proudfoot prompted him. They climbed the winding staircase, Draco taking the steps as slowly as he dared. He had a few empty potions vials in his trunk—perhaps he could slip one into the pouch, which was still nestled in his satchel, and pass it off as the Portkey…or maybe he could just give Proudfoot the empty pouch…he might not even look inside…

The moment they arrived in the dormitory, Proudfoot shut the door behind them. Crossing his arms, he leaned against the wall. “You’ve created quite a mess, Mr. Malfoy,” he said, eyeing him coolly.

Pretending to be braver than he felt, Draco scowled. “It’s none of your business.”

“Isn’t it? I think you’ll find your father disagrees.” Proudfoot looked around the room. “The Portkey. Where is it?”

Looking to buy himself time, Draco said, “Tell me how you know."

“We don’t have time for your games, Mr. Malfoy.”

“Tell me. Or I won’t give it to you.”

Proudfoot took out his wand. Draco reached for his own, expecting Proudfoot to curse him, but instead he uttered: “ _Accio_ Portkey.” When nothing happened, he sighed.

“Tell me how you know,” Draco insisted.

“Your father,” he said curtly, “is an old friend of mine. Many years ago, he helped me when I was in a difficult situation. Now I’m repaying the favour.”

“What difficult situation?”

Proudfoot pursed his lips. “That doesn’t concern you.”

“You want the Portkey, don’t you?”

“Mr. Malfoy, we don’t have _time_ for this,” Proudfoot snapped, impatience creeping into his voice. “Please don’t force me to curse a student.” When Draco glared stubbornly at him, he shook his head. “It was decades ago, when I was just starting out as an Auror. In my younger days, I had engaged in forms of magic the Ministry doesn’t necessarily approve of.”

“Dark Arts,” Draco guessed.

Proudfoot shrugged. “Your father put in a word for me…said it was all nonsense, and then gave the Ministry quite a sizeable donation…after that, they looked the other way.”

“But why would my father do that?” Draco asked, puzzled. He was not exactly a generous man.

“We were old Slytherin friends, back in the day. And he rather enjoyed having an insider at the Ministry. He never mentioned me?”

Draco thought back. His father _had_ referred to Proudfoot in passing, but always in relation to the Ministry. “Not really. I can’t remember.”

“Well, it doesn’t matter.” Proudfoot pushed off the wall and drew himself up. “When the Headmistress put out a call for a new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, your father asked me to take the job. He said it would put your mother’s mind at ease, knowing you had someone keeping an eye on you. And then just this morning, he contacted me and explained that you were being contrary.”

Draco stared at him. As Proudfoot's words sunk in, he said, "It's you. You're the contact from the Ministry who made the Portkey. You're the one who connects him to the Floo network whenever we need to talk."

"Very good," Proudfoot said, the corner of his lip twitching.

"Then why didn't you just give me the Portkey yourself? Why did I get it from that—what's his name—"

"Rochefort?" Proudfoot supplied. "In case you were ever caught and the Ministry used Veritaserum on you, we didn't want to compromise my position."

Draco's mouth went dry. It couldn't be. It just wasn't possible.

“The Portkey, now, if you please,” Proudfoot said, extending his hand.

Unsure of what else to do, Draco made a production out of pulling his satchel off his shoulder and opening it. As he rifled through his things, he felt the velvet pouch. Would Proudfoot notice that it was empty? He stood there, hardly able to breathe, trying frantically to think up a plan.

“Mr. Malfoy,” Proudfoot said in a strained voice. “I do _not_ want to have to Imperius you.”

“I…I don’t have it.”

Sighing irritably, Proudfoot raised his wand again. “I do regret this. But you’re leaving me no other option.”

Draco reached for his wand, knowing he wouldn’t be fast enough, when they suddenly heard a deep voice: “Get out of here.”

Bewildered, Draco looked over and saw Greg standing at the side of his bed, wand drawn. Haggard as ever, he fixed Proudfoot with a strange, impassive look.

“Mr. Goyle,” Proudfoot snapped. “I’ll thank you to leave us to it.”

Greg shook his head slowly. He motioned with his wand towards the door. “Go.”

Taking advantage of Proudfoot’s confusion, Draco pulled out his own wand. “You don’t want to take on us both,” he warned him. “Go. And tell my father I can look after myself, thanks.”

For a tense moment, Proudfoot said nothing. Finally, he lowered his wand. “I know what you think of your father, Draco.” He bristled at the sound of his first name. “But you’re condemning him to a fate worst than death. You’re better than this. Think of your mother—she doesn’t want this on your conscience.”

“Go,” Draco said forcefully. He couldn’t bear to listen. “Just _go_ , damn you.”

At last, Proudfoot slipped his wand back under his cloak and opened the dormitory door. “I hope you know what you’re doing,” he said quietly before disappearing down the stairs.

“Greg,” Draco breathed. He made to step towards him when Greg shook his head.

“Wait. He might come back.”

Coming to his senses, Draco held back up his wand, pointing it at the doorway. Finally, when it seemed that Proudfoot was truly gone, Draco let his arm fall. “Thank God you were here.”

Greg put his wand away, saying nothing.

“I owe you.”

“Forget about it.”

“I need to go find Harry,” Draco said. “But I’ll remember this. Really, I will. If you hadn’t been here—”

Greg stared at the ground. “Forget it, I said. Go find Potter.”

“Yeah. I will. Thank you.” With one last look at Greg, he rushed out of the room.

***

Predictably, Harry was livid. It was possibly the angriest Draco had ever seen him—storming around the courtyard, face red, fuming as Draco recounted the events of the last half hour. Harry insisted that they go to McGonagall at once, or perhaps even the Ministry, but Draco emphatically refused.

“They’ll look into it,” Draco repeated. “They’ll find out that my father meant to give them the slip, and my role in everything. Just leave it be.”

Dinner was tense. Harry stewed as he pushed his fish pie around on the plate. Draco, for his part, was still unsettled. Glancing up at the High Table, he caught Proudfoot eyeing them. Scowling, he looked away and said, “Proudfoot’s staring at us.”

“I never liked him,” Harry muttered darkly.

Draco snorted. “Yes, you did. I don’t think he’s that bad, you know…” At Harry’s indignant expression, he said, “You wouldn’t help out a mate? Especially if they’d done you a favour?”

“I’m not listening to this.”

“I’ve told you…loads of people owe my father. He’s very convincing when he needs to be.”

Harry grunted, taking a sip of pumpkin juice.

Lowering his voice, Draco asked, “You don’t think something’s happened, do you?”

“What do you mean?”

“Proudfoot said my father contacted him this morning. But why? Why is it such a big panic, all of a sudden? His next hearing isn’t until January. But Proudfoot seemed worried.”

Harry shrugged. “I haven’t heard anything from Ron’s dad, or Percy. All they’ve said is that Shacklebolt has it under control.”

Draco sat back. His head hurt from trying to make sense of everything.

“It’s lucky Goyle was there,” Harry said suddenly. “Where is he? Why is he never at meals?”

“Dunno.” Gazing along the Slytherin table, Draco said, “He’s been acting really odd the whole year. He spends loads of time in the dorm by himself. We hardly ever see him outside of classes.”

“Why? Is it…” Harry hesitated. “Is it what happened in the Room of Requirement?”

“I guess so,” he said glumly.

“This is too depressing,” Harry announced, rising from his seat. “Come on.”

Draco looked up at him, startled. “Where are we going?”

“I have some letters to send. I was hoping Callidus could do it.”

“He might be out hunting, but we can try.”

As they walked out of the Great Hall, Draco felt Proudfoot’s eyes on them. Harry must have noticed as well, because he said, quite loudly, “Git.”

It was a beautiful, clear night. From the Owlery, they took a moment to gaze out the window, noting Hagrid’s distant figure as he traipsed out of the Forbidden Forest. Callidus perched on the window ledge, eating biscuits out of Draco’s hand.

“This one’s for Hermione, and this is for Ron,” Harry said, pulling two rather rumpled envelopes from his back pocket. “They’re both at the Burrow, anyway.”

Callidus held out his leg, allowing Harry to fasten the envelopes with a bit of string. He nipped at Draco’s finger affectionately before gliding out into the night. They watched in silence as he soared across the grounds, quickly disappearing into the dark sky.

“Tomorrow’s Christmas Eve,” Harry mused. When Draco said nothing, he asked, “Are you sad you won’t be with your parents?”

“What?” Draco laughed. “Are you kidding me? Every year, there’s this big gala on Christmas Eve. It’s awful. I have to spend the entire night talking to a bunch of people I barely know. Other pure-blood families, mostly. Pansy and Blaise will be there…and Nott, too, I guess…”

At the angry look on Harry’s face, Draco changed topics. “And what about you? Going to miss the Weasleys?”

Harry hummed thoughtfully. “I guess so. A bit, anyway. I was there a lot over the summer. It’s been really difficult since Fred…”

Draco felt a terrible pang in his chest. “Of course,” he whispered.

They were quiet for a moment, lost in thought until Harry gave him a shrewd smile. “And don’t think you’ve weaseled your way out of anything, The next chance I get, I’m bringing you to the Burrow.”

“Really? That’s how you want me to die? At the hands of Ron Weasley?” Draco said idly.

Harry chuckled. “He won’t kill you. He’s a bit angry over the whole Zabini thing, still. But he’ll get there.”

“How did they react? When you told them?”

“Er…” Harry made a face. “It was a bit awkward, actually. Ron sort of exploded—but don’t worry, that’s what he does. Blows up and then comes around. And Hermione…” He smiled to himself. “She gave me that book I told you about.”

“Yes, I’ll have to thank her for that sometime.”

“Do it in front of Ron,” Harry advised him.

As Draco sniggered, Harry reached out and took his hand. Spreading out Draco’s fingers, he pressed their palms together; Harry’s hand was quite larger than his.

“I’m glad you stayed here for the holidays,” Harry muttered.

“One more term,” Draco said. “Just one more term and we can get out of here.”

“Yeah.” Harry considered him. “We need to decide where we’re going after.”

“You haven’t told me what your plans are.”

“I’m waiting to hear _your_ plans.”

“Brilliant,” Draco sighed. “What a pair we make.”

“Mmm.” Harry grasped Draco’s hand and pulled him in for a kiss. Drawing away, he said, “We’ll sort it out some other time. For now, I’m taking you to bed.”

And he did.


	30. xxx.

The Great Hall was decorated beautifully for Christmas Eve. Enormous pines, trimmed with baubles, garlands, and hundreds of glowing fairies stood proudly around the room. Hagrid had spent the better part of the morning hanging wreaths along the walls, and great, thick snowflakes drifted down from the enchanted ceiling. Although Draco’s appetite still wavered, even he had to admit that the feast was quite good: honey-glazed hams, nestled in piles of sprouts; whole roasted duck, turkey, and chicken; potatoes prepared several ways; and, of course, an endless selection of puddings. As there were so few of them, faculty and students alike sat at one large table. Even with Proudfoot there, Harry was in high spirits. The eighth years—including themselves, Greg, Anthony Goldstein, the Patil twins, and Hannah Abbott—had been offered wine, and Harry was draining his glass at an alarming rate. He giggled, face red, as he insisted that Draco wear the golden crown that had emerged from his Christmas cracker. When Harry turned to ask Goldstein about his internship at the Ministry, Draco hastily took his wine glass away and set it at the end of the table. He swore he saw McGonagall titter at that.

As the feast finally came to an end, Harry leaned towards Draco and murmured, “Let’s do something fun.”

“I’m full,” Draco groaned. “And tired.” He thought longingly of Harry’s bed, warm and cozy and calling for him from the seventh floor.

“Come on, it’s Christmas Eve.” Harry reached out and squeezed his knee under the table. “You promised you would go flying with me before the end of term.”

“What?” Draco slouched back in his chair. “Flying? Absolutely not.”

“Please? Before it gets too dark out.”

“It’s cold.”

“We’ll use Warming Charms.”

“We have the rest of the holidays!” Draco protested.

“Just for a bit. I want to go flying with you.”

“Go on, Draco,” Goldstein laughed as he finished off his treacle tart. “I was outside earlier—it’s not too cold.”

Draco wanted to resist, but it was so difficult to deny Harry anything. He sat at the edge of his chair, looking up at Draco with his wide, green eyes. His face was slightly flushed from the wine, and his hair was as messy as usual. In his red jumper and jeans, Draco thought him absolutely irresistible. And that was why, he told himself, he rolled his eyes and said, “Fine. Let’s go. Maybe the fresh air will sober you up."

They parted at the entrance hall, heading to their respective common rooms to grab their broomsticks and winter clothes. By the time they arrived at the pitch, it was very dark out.

“We’d better not use a Snitch,” Harry said. “We’ll never find it.”

Draco smirked. “You just don’t want to be bested by me again.”

“ _Again_?” Harry teased. He pulled Draco towards him and pressed a kiss to his head. “You have a terrible memory.”

“No, I don’t,” he said lightly. “I seem to remember that you looked quite fit in your Quidditch jersey.”

Harry threw him a mischievous smile. “Is that right?”

Draco hummed to himself, trying his best to keep a straight face. “Oh, I’d say so.”

“Maybe I’ll wear it for you later,” Harry said in a low voice.

Draco’s stomach flipped almost painfully. “Maybe,” he managed to say.

“And what about _your_ uniform?” Harry asked. He stopped in his tracks and, with his free hand, pulled Draco closer. Their noses were almost touching as Draco looked into his eyes, hardly able to breathe.

“I’m sure I could find it.” He shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “It must be around somewhere.”

“The problem is, if you find it,” Harry whispered, looking down at Draco’s parted lips, “I’ll never be able to keep my hands off you.”

“Really?" Draco couldn't help but grin at that.

“Yeah. I’ll have to fuck you in every room in the castle,” Harry muttered against his lips before pulling him in for a kiss. Draco's knees nearly gave out. Kissing Harry felt new every single time—he didn’t think he would ever get used to the shiver that passed through him whenever they touched. As Harry deepened the kiss, weaving his fingers through Draco’s hair, Draco felt himself growing hard. Reluctantly, he pulled away, pressing their foreheads together as he gripped the back of Harry’s neck.

“Someone will see.”

“That’s what I’m hoping.”

“Come on,” Draco scoffed, taking Harry’s hand. “We need to prove that I’m a better flyer than you.”

Up in the air, Draco felt free. They looped around the pitch, keeping pace with one another. Draco soared up higher, and Harry followed him, laughing as Draco wove towards him. Harry, of course, was an incredible flyer. He barely slowed as he sped along the bends. Nimble as ever, he pulled several tricks in the air, making Draco laugh. As that familiar swell of elation grew in Draco’s chest, he urged his broom onwards. Every day, little by little, his anxiety seemed to improve. It had been over a week since his last episode. And up here, on his broomstick, it was difficult to imagine that he had ever suffered from the nightmares, the dread, the terror at all. Cutting through the cold air, he envisioned his worries trailing behind him, incapable of keeping up as he whizzed by.

“Harry,” he shouted to be heard over the wind. “Let’s race each other. Five laps, come on.”

But Harry was slowing to a halt. Draco thought that perhaps he meant to recast his Warming Charm, or adjust his gloves, but instead he hovered in the air, looking off into the distance.

“Alright?” Draco called.

“Do you see that?”

“What?”

Harry pointed towards the castle. Squinting, Draco could just make out two people running towards them. “Who is that?”

“Dunno."

All at once, Harry’s wand burst to light. It took a moment for Draco’s eyes to adjust. Blinking at the approaching figures, he took out his wand, gripping it warily. He doubted very much that his father would be brave enough to come to Hogwarts to fetch him—and anyway, how could he leave the Manor?—but perhaps he had sent someone else in his stead. Or maybe it was Proudfoot, come to confront him again...or maybe Nott had contacted the Ministry after all, and those were two Aurors, coming to arrest him...

“Draco,” Harry shouted over the wind. “It’s Pansy Parkinson.”

“ _What_?”

“And Zabini, I think.”

He was right: Pansy and Blaise were running towards them. As Draco's fear evaporated, he found the sight to be quite comical. Pansy was waving her arms, shouting something he couldn’t hear, while Blaise lagged behind her. Baffled, Draco glided down towards them.

“Draco!” Pansy yelled. Under her thick winter cloak, she was wearing violet dress robes; her hair was done up in an elaborate knot.

“What are you doing here?” he asked as he dismounted. He heard Harry land behind him.

Pansy held on to his shoulder to steady herself. She took great gulps as she caught her breath. Finally, Blaise caught up, holding his side. He was wearing his most expensive fur coat and an enormous ushanka.

“Are you alright?” In the dark, Draco couldn't see if Blaise was injured.

“Just a stitch in my side,” he groaned, holding his waist as he limped over. “We ran all the way from Hogsmeade.”

“From Hogsmeade? Why? What’s happened?” As Harry shined the light from his wand onto them, Draco dropped his broomstick so that he could steady Pansy. “Pansy, are you okay?”

“I’m fine, I’m fine!” she cried. Her face was red; several tendrils of hair were plastered to her forehead.

“We came as soon as we could,” Zabini panted. Harry set down his broom and made to support Blaise, who waved him away.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” Draco demanded. Their panic was starting to frighten him.

“It’s your father, Draco,” Pansy said. He felt as though an ice cube had just slipped down his stomach. “We were at the—the stupid gala, you know, they’re probably just—just serving dinner now—”

Massaging his side, Zabini said, “It’s all anyone would talk about. We found out as soon as we got there.”

“Found out _what_?” Harry looked as bewildered as he felt. Draco wondered if perhaps news had gotten out about their relationship. That wouldn't be so bad, he decided.

“Your father, Draco—the Ministry—tonight, they’re going to—”

“ _Tonight_?” Draco yelped. “You mean tonight they’re going to—the Kiss? The Dementor’s Kiss?”

She nodded, her eyes filling with tears. “We came as soon as we could get away!” she wailed.

“They’re doing it tonight, behind Shacklebolt's back,” said Blaise darkly.

“'They?' Who is 'they?'" Harry asked.

“The Wizengamot. They figure Shacklebolt and all the rest will be busy…Christmas Eve, you know…they’ve got a quorum…it was one of the Burkes who told us, I forget her name, her father-in-law is on the Wizengamot…”

“What do we do?” Panic welling up his chest, Draco turned to Harry.

“We go there! Right now!” Harry said, taking up his broomstick. “Come on, if we hurry, we might get there on time.”

“There’s no way.” Pansy shook her head. “It’s—it’s hours away. You’ll never make it on brooms.”

Draco groaned; she was right. “What about McGonagall?”

“She’ll tell us to keep out of it,” Harry said at once. “That it’s not our place.”

“She’s alright, though, McGonagall,” Pansy argued. “She won’t just stand by and let them—”

“But what if she holds us up?" Harry interrupted her. "Or asks questions? Or keeps us from going somehow?”

“Proudfoot,” Draco suggested. “I know what he’s done, Harry, but he’ll know how to get to the Ministry.”

“No,” Harry said vehemently. “Absolutely not. I don’t trust him.”

“Why?” Pansy asked, glancing back and forth between them. “What’s Proudfoot done?”

“I’ll tell you later,” Draco muttered.

“You can Apparate from Hogsmeade,” Zabini said. “That’s how we got here.”

“But we’d have to go through the visitors’ entrance,” said Harry. “And I doubt we could get past it. What are we going to say? ‘We’re here to interrupt a trial?’”

“There has to be another way!” Pansy shrieked. Draco took her under his arm; she was nearly hysterical.

“In my fifth year, we rode the Thestrals to the Ministry,” Harry said, turning to squint at the Forbidden Forest. “But I don’t know how we’d find them, now, in the dark…they could be anywhere in there…”

“Anthony Goldstein,” Draco breathed.

“What?” Pansy asked, looking up at him fearfully.

“Anthony Goldstein stayed here for the holidays,” he said. “He works in administration, at the Ministry. That’s what he’s doing for his internship.”

“And he must have some sort of way to get to the Ministry during the week,” Harry said quickly, catching on.

“Harry—your map, check your map—”

But Harry was already well ahead of him, digging through his pockets until he pulled out the old, worn parchment. He tapped it with his wand. “I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.”

If Pansy and Blaise found the map as strange as Draco first had, they said nothing. Instead, they huddled around as Harry cast the light from his wand onto the parchment, searching desperately for the dot labeled ‘Anthony Goldstein.’

“There he is!” Harry gasped. “He’s just come out from the Hufflepuff common room.”

“I bet you he’s headed for the prefects’ bathroom,” Draco said, scrambling to pick up his Firebolt.

Harry shoved the map into his pocket. “Let’s go, we can still catch him.”

Draco turned to Pansy, who was crying now. “Pansy, listen to me. It’s going to be fine. You need to get back to the gala, before they suspect anything."

“Yeah…yeah, alright,” she sniffed, wiping her face with her sleeve.

Draco gave her a quick kiss on the cheek and then mounted his broom. He was scared—for his father, for his mother, for himself—but his fear was drowned out by the rush of adrenaline that coursed through him as he made to kick off the ground.

“YOU!” Pansy suddenly yelled, pointing an accusatory finger at Harry. He blinked at her, wide-eyed. “Y-You keep Draco safe, you hear me?”

Harry glanced over at Draco, a terrified expression on his face. “Yeah,” he said weakly. “Of course.”

“Go on, then!” Blaise barked, pulling Pansy out of the way so that they could take off.

They swept across the grounds, reaching the castle in no time. Dismounting clumsily as they reached the entrance hall, they clambered up the staircase so quickly that they almost forgot to skip the trick step.

“Check the map,” Draco said as they reached the third floor.

Harry pulled out the Marauder’s Map. After scanning it for a second, he said, “Fifth floor. Come on.”

As they burst onto the fifth floor, they instantly spotted Goldstein. 

“Anthony!” Harry shouted, racing towards him.

“Harry!” he squeaked. Draco almost felt guilty: Goldstein looked absolutely petrified.

“Listen,” Harry said, drawing up next to him and leaning on the statue of Boris the Bewildered as he tried to catch his breath. “Anthony—your internship—”

“I know I’m not a prefect anymore!” he said, his face turning a deep shade of purple. “It’s Eleanor Branstone who’s given me the password to the bathroom, we—"

“What?” Harry asked, confused. “No, no, I don’t care about that.”

“How do you get to the Ministry?” Draco demanded.

“To the Ministry?” Goldstein was staring at them as though they were both quite mad.

“For your internship!” he snapped. “At the Ministry! How do you get there?”

“Oh! Well, I just Floo there.”

“ _How_?"

“Well, they’ve made it very easy…there’s a spare classroom on the third floor, only those of us working at the Ministry have access...the grate’s connected right to the Atrium…”

“Can you bring us?” Harry said. “We need to get to the Ministry, right away.”

“I mean…it’s supposed to be restricted…we’re not really meant to…”

“Anthony.” Harry straightened up and took hold of Goldstein’s arm. “This is really, really important. Please. Something awful is about to happen and we need to try to stop it.”

Goldstein floundered under Harry’s fierce face. Finally, he said, “Alright. But _please_ don’t tell anyone it was me. And…and don’t mention the prefects’ bathroom, okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, fine,” Harry said, already heading back towards the stairs. They hurried down to the third floor, where Goldstein led them to an empty classroom by the Charms corridor. Draco had never been in this room before; in the dark, he could just make out a single dilapidated armchair shoved into a corner. Against the wall stood an enormous stone fireplace. Goldstein rushed over and picked up a small bowl of Floo powder set on the mantle. Turning to them, he offered it.

“Just say ‘Ministry of Magic.’ But, Harry, nobody will be there now, not at this time…and it’s Christmas Eve…”

“Thanks, Anthony,” Harry said, grabbing a fistful of glittering powder. Draco copied him, giving Goldstein a grim smile as he dipped his hand into the pot.

Harry flicked his wand towards the hearth; instantly, the wood logs caught flame. He glanced over at Draco before throwing his Floo powder into the fire. As the flames turned emerald green, Harry stepped into the grate. "Ministry of Magic!" He vanished. Draco strode forward, throwing his own handful of powder into the fire.

“Good luck,” he heard Goldstein call faintly.

The moment he felt himself sucked into the roaring whirlwind, Draco recalled how much he hated traveling by Floo. Squeezing his eyes shut, elbows tucked in, he grimaced as he spun. Around and around he went, everything he had eaten for dinner turning in his stomach, until finally he felt solid ground beneath his feet. Stumbling out of the grate, Draco glanced upwards—they were in the Atrium. Harry was already running ahead of him towards the lifts. Their footsteps echoed loudly on the polished wood floor. Draco had never been inside the Ministry after hours before; the enormous, empty hall was rather disquieting. The Fountain of Magical Brethren—and, Draco thought bitterly, the bloody Magic is Might monument—had been replaced by a gleaming white pyramid carved with the names of those who had fallen during the war. Having passed by the memorial countless times over the summer while attending his hearings, Draco knew nearly every name by heart.

“Level nine,” Draco called to Harry, who was already at the lift. As he caught up, he asked, “Which courtroom do you think it is?”

“Dunno,” Harry said, rattling the golden grille. “I wish the bloody lift would hurry up.”

“Harry,” Draco said suddenly. “Do you think we should try to alert Shacklebolt? Or…or anyone who might help? We should have asked Pansy and Blaise to send an owl.”

“Yeah, hang on,” Harry said, reaching into his pocket for his wand. He took a deep breath, set back his shoulders, and then: “ _Expecto Patronum!_ ” The silvery stag burst forth, its soft glow illuminating the Atrium.

“We’re at the Ministry!" he told the stag. "We need help.” At once, his Patronus dashed off, galloping towards the peacock-blue ceiling and then passing through it.

“How did you do that?” Draco asked, gaping at him.

“Order trick…I’ll show you sometime…here, come on.” Finally, the lift had arrived. They stepped aside and Harry began pummeling the button for level nine. Slowly, the grille closed, and they heard the sharp rattle of chains as they descended.

“Come on, come on, _move_ ,” Harry groaned.

Draco’s heart was beating furiously in his chest as he took out his wand. He told himself to stay calm, that Harry was there, that Harry would know what to do, that nothing bad could _really_ happen to him as long as he was with Harry. But every time he thought of his father, and whether they were too late, he felt as though he was going to be sick.

“Department of Mysteries,” came the disembodied female voice as the lift ground to a halt. Harry didn’t even wait for the grille to fully open—pushing it aside, he ran down the hall. They took a sharp left and then threw themselves down the stairs. As they finally emerged into the cold, stone corridor, Harry jogged over to the nearest door.

“Courtroom Ten, maybe…” Harry tried the handle; it was locked. “No, alright...” The door to Courtroom Nine was locked as well. Harry gave a growl of frustration.

As they approached Courtroom Eight, the temperature plunged several degrees. All at once, Draco felt a cold shudder pass through him. Sorrow and fear mixed together, constricting his chest and blocking his windpipe. It was a hollow misery that he had only experienced a handful of times.

“It’s here,” Harry gasped as though the wind had been knocked out of him. “Here, it has to be…”

Harry turned the iron handle and pushed through. Draco nearly ran into him as he froze in the doorway.


	31. xxxi.

The moment they burst into the room, several things happened at once. They were greeted by startled shouts—one woman in particular gave a ghastly shriek—and Draco nearly tripped before Harry grabbed his arm. He looked up and found himself in a horrific nightmare. There was his father, chained to a chair in the center of the room, a dementor hovering over him. Panic bursting through his veins, Draco scrambled to think up a happy memory—Harry kissing him, Harry saying that he loved him—and he bellowed: “ _EXPECTO PATRONUM_!” The silver scorpion erupted from his wand and skittered towards the dementor, tail raised. Draco felt a rush of hope as the dementor fell back, holding out its scabbed hands.

“What is the meaning of this?” A woman sitting in the front bench jumped up. There could not have been more than twenty people scattered throughout the benches. “This is a private hearing!”

Draco didn’t recognize the woman who was yelling at them, but Harry must have, because he said coldly, "Madam Webb.”

“Mr. Potter.” At the sight of Harry, she seemed flummoxed; she looked back at the Wizengamot members behind her, who appeared equally nonplussed. Each of them had a Patronus at their side.

Draco followed Harry into the room and rushed over to his father. For a heart-stopping moment, he thought that they must have been too late—he had never seen his father’s skin so pale and waxy. But as he crouched down at his side, his father croaked, “Draco.” A surge of relief flowed through him.

The witch Harry had addressed as Madam Webb had taken out her wand. “I’m sure we’re all very glad to see you, Mr. Potter, but I’m going to have to ask you both to leave. As you can see, we’re in the middle of a hearing.”

“Where’s Kingsley Shacklebolt?” Harry demanded, looking around the room. “Not here, is he?”

Gazing up at the members of the Wizengamot—several of whom he recognized from his own trial—Draco nearly missed the only person who was not wearing plum robes: his mother.

“Mother,” he breathed, rising to his feet. Dressed in black robes that threatened to swallow her up, she looked smaller and more frightened than Draco had ever seen her. She blinked down at Draco as though she didn’t quite believe that he was there.

“Really, Mr. Potter, this is highly irregular,” Madam Webb snapped. “Please see yourselves out immediately.”

“No, I don’t think so,” Harry said coolly. He readjusted his grip on his wand. “We know what you’re planning to do.”

“This is Ministry business, Mr. Potter,” she said in a curt voice.

“Shacklebolt doesn’t want you using the Dementor’s Kiss,” Harry shot back.

Someone else stood up—an ancient, stooped wizard. “Unfortunately,” he said, “you’ll find that the Minister does not have the right to overrule the Wizengamot.”

“And where are all the other members?” Harry asked.

“We have a quorum, Mr. Potter.” Madam Webb seemed to be growing very irritable indeed.

Harry looked over at the dementor, still cowering as Draco’s Patronus crowded it against the wall. “No. This isn’t right. You know this isn’t right.”

“We’ve already voted,” she said. Her Patronus, a small, silver-feathered owl, was hooting angrily at them.

Another wizard stood up. Draco recognized the sallow-faced man at once: Richard Cresswell, one of Dirk Cresswell’s many cousins. “Mr. Potter, I’m sure you'll want to get back to enjoying your Christmas Eve. This is nothing to bother yourself with.”

“Get these off," Harry said, motioning to the chains wrapped around Draco's father. "This is ridiculous.”

“Out.” Madam Webb, apparently at her wits’ end, was storming down the length of the bench. “I know we’ve all enjoyed your little visit, Mr. Potter, and I’m sure Mr. Malfoy is very glad of the opportunity to see his father, but this is not for your eyes.” As she came down the stairs towards them, Harry held up his wand.

“Have you all lost your minds?” Harry shouted at the benches. “This is mad!”

There was a great clamour as several members of the Wizengamot jumped up. One of them, a tall, thin man, pointed at Draco’s father and yelled, “Lucius Malfoy is a murderer!”

“Are you aware, Mr. Potter,” Madam Webb said in a low voice, “that my cousin Amelia and all of her family were killed by He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?”

Draco glanced helplessly at Harry, whose expression had hardened. “I know that. And I’m sorry. But using the Dementor’s Kiss on Mr. Malfoy isn’t going to bring them back.”

Madam Webb stopped short. She looked as though she had been slapped. “How dare you,” she whispered.

“Mr. Potter, you can’t be serious,” said a diminutive witch. She was overshadowed by her Patronus, an enormous dog. “Lucius Malfoy was You-Know-Who’s right hand man.” She leaned forward, adjusting her glasses. “Has he been Confounded? Why is he with the Malfoy boy?”

“You leave him out of this,” Harry growled. “I saw people die, too! Loads of people, people I really cared about…Fred Weasley, Remus Lupin, Nymphadora Tonks…I’m sure you’ve all heard of them…my godfather, Sirius…Dobby the house-elf…none of you will have known him, but he was brilliant, I wouldn’t be alive if it weren’t for him…” Harry looked over at Draco’s father, and then continued, “We all know what Mr. Malfoy has done. But doing this—it’s not going to bring anyone back. It’s not going to make things better. It’s just not.”

Silence rang through the dungeons as Harry finished speaking. Draco allowed himself to hope that perhaps they might see reason.

“Madam Webb,” called the old wizard who had spoken earlier, “this is absurd. We need to move things along.”

“Quite right.” Brandishing her wand, Madam Webb came to stand before them, an imperious look on her face. “I don’t know why you two are here, or how you found out about Mr. Malfoy’s hearing tonight, but enough is enough. I will ask you one more time to leave, or you will have to witness something that I would really rather you didn’t see.”

Draco felt a silent scream rip through his throat. Terrified, he looked over at Harry, who was staring at Madam Webb defiantly.

“Very well,” she snapped. “If you insist.” She turned to the dementor, still quaking in the face of Draco’s Patronus. “Call it off, Mr. Malfoy.”

Draco shook his head, unable to speak.

In a cold voice, she said, “There are plenty more dementors at our disposal.” Glancing at Harry, she added, “We are all aware that you are a remarkable wizard, Mr. Potter, but even you can’t take on fifty dementors. Please. This has gotten out of hand.”

Harry strode over to Draco’s father, who stared up at him, petrified. Standing between the dementor and Draco’s father, Harry said, “I’m not moving. If you want the dementors to Kiss Mr. Malfoy, then they’ll have to Kiss me, first.”

Suddenly, everyone was on their feet. Birds screeched, dogs barked, and a monkey started to howl as members of the Wizengamot shouted at Harry and at each other. In the pandemonium, Draco grabbed Harry’s elbow and hissed, “Harry, _no._ ” But Harry’s eyes were fixed on Madam Webb, a grim expression on his face.

Madam Webb looked as though she was about to explode. She took a step towards Harry, raised her wand, and opened her mouth to speak.

They never found out what she was about to say, though, because suddenly they heard the sound of footsteps crashing through the corridor. Draco spun towards the door and watched as Shacklebolt, Dawlish, and Proudfoot came racing through. They had evidently just come from Christmas celebrations—Shacklebolt’s navy robes shone with gold stars, while Dawlish had a homburg perched jauntily on his head.

“ _Expelliarmus!_ ” Proudfoot barked; Madam Webb’s wand went flying towards the benches.

“What the blazes is going on in here?” Dawlish cried.

“Minister,” Madam Webb gasped, faltering. The other members of the Wizengamot fell quiet; several of them had sunk into their seats.

To Draco’s surprise, Shacklebolt rushed over to his father. He tapped his wand on the chains, and instantly, they released.

“Are you alright, Mr. Malfoy?” Shacklebolt asked quietly, crouching down so that they were face-to-face.

“Fine, Minister, just fine,” he muttered, massaging his wrists.

Shacklebolt took a moment to check over Draco’s father before rising to his feet. “Madam Webb,” he said in his deep, slow voice. “Would you please explain what is happening here?”

“Minister, I…I…”

As she struggled to answer, Draco squatted next to his father, whose face was still pale. Their eyes met for a moment and then Draco, overcome with emotion, reached out and took his hand.

“I will see you in my office, Madam Webb,” Shacklebolt was saying. “The rest of you will be contacted after the holidays.” Throwing a disgusted look at the dementor, he said, “And I’ll ask you to please return that thing from where it came.”

“Are you alright, Father?” Draco asked. “We came as soon as we heard.”

For once, his father didn’t seem to know what to say. He was dressed in shabby grey robes, his blonde hair falling in lanky strands around his face. He looked up at Harry, whose expression was inscrutable.

“You should be fine, now,” Draco said. Still recovering from his panic, he couldn’t stop himself from rambling. “Shacklebolt will keep an eye on you…won’t let you out of his sight, I bet…everything will be okay…you’ll see…”

“Draco.” Harry gently touched his shoulder. “Your mother.”

Draco turned to find his mother standing at the bottom of the stairs. The expression on her face was oddly vacant.

“Mother,” he said, rushing towards her. “Are you alright?”

She cupped his face in her hands. “You were very brave,” she muttered, studying him.

“I—I didn’t—it was all Harry—I didn’t really—”

She shook her head, bringing her hands to rest on his shoulders. “You did very well. I knew you wouldn’t abandon your father.”

“Mother, I…the Portkey…” Draco shook his head. He didn’t want to apologize, but confronted with his mother’s gaunt face, he felt a sharp twist of guilt pierce through his stomach. “I just…it was…I couldn't anymore, I really couldn't…”

“I know.” She squeezed his shoulders. “I know.”

Draco felt as though he was going to cry; he was saved by Shacklebolt, who, for such a large man, placed a very gentle hand on his mother’s back. “Mrs. Malfoy,” he said softly. “Let’s get you both back to the Manor.”

“Come, Draco,” she said, reaching down for his hand. “At least the three of us can be together for one last Christmas.” With a sad smile on her face, she said, "Mr. Potter can come, too. We'll have a feast like we did before you left for Hogwarts, remember? A dish from every place we've visited..."

He almost didn’t manage to refuse her. It was so much easier to defy his parents when he was at Hogwarts and they were safely imprisoned in the Manor. But he took a steadying breath, turned to face her, and for some strange reason thought of Daphne as he said, “That’s alright, Mother. I’m going back to Hogwarts.”

Draco expected her to scold him, but instead, she gripped his hand and then allowed Shacklebolt to escort her towards the door. His father was being helped along by Proudfoot.

“Do you want to say goodbye to your father?” Harry asked, coming to stand next to him.

“No,” Draco said truthfully. He watched as his father stumbled towards the door. “I think things are settled between us now. And I’m…I’m done. I’m just…done.”

And even though the dungeon was still full of Wizengamot members, Harry looped his arm around Draco’s waist, pulling him closer. They stood like that as his parents were ushered out of the room.

“What a night,” Dawlish was saying loudly. “Christmas dinner was an absolute nightmare—my mother-in-law, you've never met her, have you, Proudfoot, just unbearable—and I’d already been called away for a bunch of explosions up in Norfolk—can you imagine…”

Just as he was about to walk out the door, Proudfoot stopped and gazed over at Draco. There was a tense moment as they eyed one another—Draco felt Harry stiffen beside him—and then Proudfoot nodded and swept out of the room.

It was over, he thought to himself. Finally, it was over.


	32. xxxii.

The last day of the Christmas holidays found Draco and Harry meandering along the path to the lake. Draco kept peering up at the sky—Daphne was in Dublin for her audition, and he was expecting a letter from her at any moment. Harry, meanwhile, had already received letters from his friends earlier that morning. He read them aloud to Draco as they walked, explaining the contents and making interjections where necessary.

“Xenophilius Lovegood…that’s Luna’s dad, he lives near the Burrow…looks like they’ve visited a few times, that’s nice…”

Draco listened quietly. After everything that had happened over the last term, it seemed strange to worry about Harry’s friends. But he couldn’t help the fear gnawing at him whenever Harry brought them up. Harry was adamant that they stop hiding, and in principle, Draco agreed. He had just defied his father and half the Wizengamot; surely, he could take on his peers’ idle whispers and stares. But in the dead of night, as he listened to Harry’s rhythmic breathing and stared up at the ceiling, Draco couldn’t help but wonder how he would cope. His episodes had started to dwindle, as had his nightmares, although most days he was still weighed down by the dull, heavy surge of anxiety that pulsed through him. He often worried that the episodes would start up again if the other students gave them trouble.

With a sort of grim resolution, he had decided that this was his lot to bear—the fear, the apprehension, the restlessness that gripped him every so often. And it was almost as though that sense of acceptance had lightened the load. He knew, now, that the shrill voice screaming at him in panic was a liar—he was not in danger, he was not doomed, everything would be alright. There was still good to be found in this world. Even in a world where people like Colin Creevey died, and where Harry’s godson, Teddy Lupin, would grow up without his parents, and where George Weasley was now forced to live without his twin brother, there was still some good. There was good in the sound of Harry’s voice, rumbling softly as he read through his friends’ letters. There was good in Harry’s calloused hands, rubbing his back whenever he woke from a nightmare. There was good in Harry’s eyes, following him protectively wherever he went.

And there was plenty of good in other things, too: if he hadn’t survived the war, Draco would have never been able to enjoy this crisp January morning, the untouched snow around them swallowing up all sound and glittering under the sun. He would have missed the feel of Harry’s sheets tangled around him, keeping him warm and urging him to stay in bed. He would have missed the anticipation he felt as they came to the end of their last year at Hogwarts. And even though he didn’t really know what was waiting for him on the other end, there was some good, too, in having the chance to find out.

“Look,” Harry was saying, elbowing him gently. “Look what Hermione said about your wand.”

“My wand?” Draco asked, frowning at him.

“Your old wand, the trouble you had with it. I told you I’d ask Hermione, remember?” Harry pushed the bundle of parchments into his fist—there had to be at least five pages. How could he stand to read such long letters? Shaking his head in amazement, Draco turned to the paragraph Harry was pointing at.

_About Draco’s wand—that’s very interesting. I’ve been doing some research. Do you remember when Mr. Ollivander said that Draco’s wand had a unicorn hair core? Wands made of unicorn hair are the most loyal. And he told us that wands and wizards learn together through experience. I think Draco’s old wand has rejected him because it doesn’t recognize him. I don’t think the old wand knows who he is, and so it isn’t loyal to him, because it thinks he’s someone else. He’s changed a lot since he first got that wand. I bet you his old wand is just refusing to work for him while it waits for its old master to come back._

She went on to describe the several books she had consulted in drawing this conclusion. Draco looked over at Harry, whose brows were furrowed in concentration as he read. Finally, muttering the last few words to himself, Harry glanced up at Draco.

“What do you reckon?” he asked in a quiet voice.

“I mean…” Draco shifted his satchel on his shoulder; his old wand was still tucked safely within. “I guess it makes sense.”

“It does make sense,” Harry said excitedly. “I think Hermione’s right. Your wand's waiting for the old Draco to come back, and it's being stubborn and refusing to listen to someone else.”

“Maybe.” Handing Harry back his letter, Draco shoved his hands in his pockets and continued on down the path.

“Draco? Are you alright?”

“Yeah, I just…” He sighed. “I dunno. Sometimes I think I’m different from how I was, but other times I think I’m exactly the same.”

“You’re both,” Harry said, catching up with him. “You’re both. And I love that about you.”

“Mmm.”

“So, what are you going to do with your old wand, then? Chuck it?”

Draco considered the satisfaction he might gain from snapping his old wand in half—a clean break from the past, maybe—but then he shook his head. “No…I’ll keep it, I think,” he said. “It'll be a good reminder."

As they strolled along the path, Draco kept glancing up at the sky. “Callidus should be here any minute now."

Harry laughed. “Daphne said she’ll write when she can.”

“How long can it possibly take?” Draco complained. "Dublin isn't that far. Callidus should make the trip in no time."

“I bet that sort of thing takes hours. There are loads of other people auditioning. And she said she might not be able to get away for a while, remember? There’s a dinner for everyone who’s been accepted.”

Draco groaned, rubbing his face wearily. “I just want to know, that’s all.”

Harry was suddenly pulling him into his arms. “It’s going to be fine,” he muttered. “Please don’t get anxious. You’ve been better, lately. Eating, and sleeping. Let's keep it that way.”

Acutely aware that they were out in the open, where anyone could see them, Draco tensed. Then, mustering up whatever courage he had, telling himself that he had just taken on a dementor, he leaned forward and kissed Harry. It was only a brief, chaste kiss, but Harry’s face lit up as he pulled away.

“I’m fine,” Draco said. He reached down and took Harry’s hand in his as they continued on to the lake.

***

Although they were both eager to start their final stretch at Hogwarts, there was a bittersweet sense of grief between them as they finished dinner. Tomorrow morning, everyone would be back. No longer would they be able to fall asleep in Harry’s bed together, curling up under the sheets until hunger forced them to go down for breakfast. They would have to go back to sitting at their respective tables, and a full class schedule meant that they wouldn’t see each other as often.

“What should we do with our last night together?” Draco asked, blowing on a hot spoonful of potato soup.

“Anything you like.” Harry was sitting so close to Draco that he was practically on top of him, but he found that he didn’t mind. Slowly, he was getting used to the others’ stares.

“You know that we’re going to have to be a lot subtler, right?”

Harry hummed to himself, scraping his spoon along his bowl.

“And what about Granger and Weasley?”

“Hermione will be fine, you saw her letter,” Harry said. “Ron…er…I hope Hermione’s been working on him over Christmas. I thought we could all play a game of Quidditch together, once they get back. Maybe you could convince the Slytherins to let Ron block a few goals.”

Draco scoffed. “If Zabini and Nott ever let Weasley win on purpose, I’ll run starkers through the Great Hall.”

“No, you won’t,” Harry said at once.

Draco gave him a sly little smile. “Protective as ever, aren’t you? Well…” Draco sighed, dropping his spoon and pushing the finished bowl away. “I hope you’ll be keeping an eye on me once everyone gets back, because people are _not_ going to be happy when they find out.”

“Find out what?”

“That we’re together,” Draco said irritably. He knew by now that Harry just loved to make him say it aloud.

“Ah, right.” Harry reached forward and took his hand. “I don’t care, you know. I don’t care at all. I’d have you right here on the table if you’d let me.”

Draco’s heart clenched painfully at that. “I know,” he muttered. “But you’re Harry Potter. Nobody’s going to bother _you_. It’s me they’re going to have a problem with.”

“And I’ll be right here,” Harry insisted. He traced his thumb along the back of Draco’s hand. “And I’ll have Ron and Hermione on the lookout, too.”

“Oh, yes, I’m sure that’s how Weasley wants to spend his last months at Hogwarts,” Draco said wryly. “You two have stalked me enough to last a lifetime."

“Draco,” Harry said. “It really is going to be fine. I promise.”

Uncomfortable, Draco shifted in his seat. “If you say so.” In an effort to change the subject, he said, “So. It’s our last night together before the castle fills up with idiots again. Any special plans?”

“I’ve got an idea,” Harry said, a smile tugging at his lips.

***

Since the end of his sixth year, Draco had refused to step foot in the Astronomy Tower. Most days, he managed to avoid looking at it entirely. And so when Harry proposed that they climb to the top of the tower to see the night sky, he blanched. Terror and guilt threatened to engulf him until Harry finally held his face in his hands, looking straight into his eyes.

“You need to, Draco,” he had said firmly. “You need to start healing. Dumbledore wouldn’t have wanted you to suffer like this.”

In the end, Draco allowed himself to be dragged up the winding staircase. Up and up they went, their footsteps echoing against the stone walls. As they finally pushed through the door and out into the cold night, Draco took a deep breath. The cool wind was bracing. Clutching Harry’s arm as though he was afraid he might leave, Draco looked around. The crenellated ramparts had been repaired since the battle; overhead, hundreds of stars twinkled down at them. Draco had expected to drown in panic, but instead he felt strangely numb. Somewhere deep in his chest was a desperate sadness—he glanced over at where Dumbledore had nearly fallen to his knees before Severus had…

“You’re alright,” Harry was whispering, rubbing his back through his thick cloak. “You’re alright. Look, you can see Ursa Minor from here.” He pointed up at the sky, tracing a constellation with his finger.

“Listened during Astronomy, did you?” Draco said weakly, pacing across the stone floor.

“A bit. I got ‘Acceptable’ on my O.W.L.” Suddenly, Harry laughed. “Hey, you see that constellation, there?” When Draco stared at him mutely, Harry took his hand and held it up towards the sky. Gently, he used Draco’s hand to trace a series of stars.

Realizing what they were looking at, Draco couldn’t help himself—he smiled. “My namesake.”

“That’s right!” Harry’s enthusiasm was infectious. They went on to identify Cepheus, Perseus, and Ursa Major.

Feeling braver, Draco walked towards the rampart, hands buried in his pockets. “That was the saddest moment of my life,” he said. The wind was blowing so strongly that he wondered whether Harry could hear him. “Watching Dumbledore…fall. I couldn’t believe it. For weeks, I couldn’t believe it. And it was because of me that Severus had to do it, you know…”

“That’s not true,” Harry said sternly. “I saw Snape’s memories. Dumbledore asked him to, ages before it happened. He didn’t want that on your conscience. He asked Snape to do it quickly, to get it over with, to make it painless. It had nothing to do with you.”

Draco released a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He had heard some of this before, from his mother, but he and Harry tended to avoid discussing Severus at all costs. It was far too painful. And now, up here on the Astronomy Tower, the thought of Severus killing Dumbledore on his behalf was so agonizing that his soul threatened to rip in two.

“He still did it for me, then,” Draco said bitterly. “To spare me.”

“ _No_ ,” Harry insisted, gripping Draco’s arm. “For Dumbledore. And to make sure Voldemort didn’t get suspicious…once Snape killed Dumbledore, he trusted him completely. And that way, Snape could protect Hogwarts, protect the students…”

“Oh, yes, that went very well, didn’t it?” Draco sniffed. “I wonder what Dumbledore would say if he knew you had a former Death Eater in your bed every night.” He was filled with a self-loathing so strong that his hands shook.

At once, Harry marched up to him. Cupping his face, Harry said, “He would have been happy. Because I’m happy. Because _we’re_ happy. God, you’re so stupid sometimes. Can’t you see how happy I am?”

“You’ve lost the plot,” Draco said in as neutral a voice as he could manage. “I always said you were a bit mad.”

“Mmm.” Harry trailed his thumb along Draco’s lips, gently parting his mouth before drawing a line down his chin and across his jaw. “I’ve been wanting to touch you all day. I don’t know how I’m going to bear it, keeping my hands off you until the end of the year.”

“They’ll have a wager going,” Draco said as he gripped Harry’s waist. “How long you can last before we snog in front of everyone.”

“Let’s do it the last day of classes,” Harry said eagerly. “Come on. We’ll send a photo to the _Prophet._ I bet we could make the front page.”

Draco sneered at that. “But you hate being in the papers. Or have you just been pretending this whole time?”

Harry wound his arms behind Draco’s neck and pulled him in for a soft kiss. “I do hate being in the papers. But you know I’ll take any opportunity to show everyone that you’re mine. In fact…” Harry pulled away, studying Draco’s neck critically. “Let’s get you to bed. I need to mark you up before tomorrow.”

“I don’t think you’ll have to worry about Zabini anymore,” Draco teased him.

“Still. Good to send a strong message at the start of the term, don’t you think?”

Draco chuckled, shaking his head. “You are _relentless._ But you need to behave. You promised.”

“I know, I know,” Harry sighed. “I’ll be good until the end of the year. But after that…I’ll never leave you alone.”

“Good.” Draco wove his fingers through Harry’s messy hair. There was no other word for it—he was beautiful, the wind whipping through his hair, his cheeks ruddy from the cold, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

Suddenly serious, Harry said, “Wherever you go, I’ll follow. You know that, right?”

“I doubt I’ll be going far,” he murmured, a fresh wave of fear rippling through him. “I don’t know who’s going to want me.”

“Would you stop it?” Harry took Draco’s face in his hands again. “You’re brilliant. Wherever you work, they'll be lucky to have you. And anyway, I’m the Chosen One, aren’t I? The Boy Who Lived Twice? We’ll use that rubbish if we have to.”

“I suppose as long as I’ve got the Chosen One behind me, that might open some doors.”

“Oh, I’ll be behind you, don’t you worry,” Harry said slyly.

No matter how many times Harry taunted him like that, Draco didn’t think his stomach would ever stop typing itself into knots. He brought his hands up against Harry’s chest and kissed him, groaning as Harry clung to him.

“And where are we headed?” Harry asked breathlessly as they broke apart. “After Hogwarts?”

They both looked up as they heard a sharp _hoot_ off in the distance. In the dark, they could just make out Callidus flying towards them. As he drew near, Draco spotted a roll of parchment tucked into his talons. His heart gave a little leap of excitement.

“Dunno,” Draco said, watching as Callidus flapped his great wings. “What do you think of Ireland?”

He reached up to catch the scroll as it dropped from overhead. As Draco worked to unfurl it, Harry pulled him closer. They huddled against the wind, reading Daphne’s letter together.

Yes, there was still some good in this world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And with that comes the end of this story! I want to thank everyone who's taken the time to read it. For those of you who might want to read more of my work, I have a Drarry one-shot posted, and plans for several others. Again, thank you so much for reading, and take care of yourselves.


End file.
